


All We Need is Daylight

by Helena_Hathaway



Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: ABSOLUTELY GUARANTEED HAPPY ENDING, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Hockey, Angst with a Happy Ending, Because I know that would fuck me up, But just in case anyone is worried about it neither Frank nor Gee is the rapist, College Hockey, Frerard, Happy Ending, Hockey, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Sexual Assault, Yes this fic is going to deal with rape, everyone's age is fucked around with, figure skating
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2018-09-07 13:51:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 34
Words: 207,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8803333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helena_Hathaway/pseuds/Helena_Hathaway
Summary: Frank is thrust all too suddenly into a new life, one where he's not warmly welcomed. He's the best goddamn hockey player he knows, though, and he's not going to let anyone take that away from him. Or at least, not until his world comes tumbling down.





	1. Out of the Frying Pan...

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE read the tags on this fic, this is going to be a little more mature than some of the other stuff I've written and I want everyone to know what they're getting into before starting this fic.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A not so warm welcome.

The leaves on the sidewalk are not the crisp autumn ones that Frank is used to. They’re damp, and under his feet, there is no satisfying crunch. The pavement is also a deep grey color, showing the signs of the recent rain. The chill in the air feels more like snow than rain, but Frank feels the barely-there sprinkles of rain as they fall from the pure white sky above him. 

It’s just his luck to come upon his new town on a day like this. The entire town is asleep, huddled up indoors, no faces to give him either an unfriendly or warm welcome. It’s just empty, or so it feels. Like an old mining town, now turned into a ghost town. No one at all. He expects to see the Scooby gang wondering about, going in one door than coming out a completely different one.

His footsteps sound loud and echo off of the empty city streets. The wheels of his suitcase being pulled behind him slipping every which way on the wet ground, and kicking up the water from the ground as well, making his feet even more damp than they were already. 

Frank isn’t exactly expecting a welcome committee, he’s sure that he’s the last person anyone here actually wants to see, but still, he didn’t expect he’d have to walk two miles from the airport in the rain. The guy he’d spoken with on the phone, made it sound like a relief that Frank was coming. He thought there might be an ounce of hospitality for him. Evidently not. 

The town, despite it’s cold first impression, is actually quite beautiful. It’s quaint, and the shops are all small, locally owned ones that have seen better days, but it’s the kind of town that Frank always envisioned himself living in. He’s not really a big city guy, he’s a small college town guy. If the town has more than one bakery, and it’s not owned by a sweet old lady, than it’s not really the town for Frank.

The school campus of Armstrong University looms over him like a monster, too big, and too intimidating for Frank to bare. He has to keep walking though. He doesn’t have a choice, but he’s afraid. He’s afraid of the unknown. 

Frank doesn’t actually know where to go. He doesn’t have enough information; this has all been like an afterthought. He’s in the middle of a town he’s never even heard of, been given little to no information on why he’s here, and no one is available to tell him any more information than that.

Frank stops in front of what has to be the main building, because it’s the only building that looks nice. The rest of the campus looks like it was thrown together with spare bricks that were lying around somewhere. This building looks like it was made with intent. It’s got one of those fancy ass domes at the top and the school flag hanging on either side of the field in front of it. It’s nothing to write home about, but it would make a semi-decent postcard. 

Frank just stares at it for a good few minutes, and he sees an actual human being cross in front of the building, backpack clinging to their side, so at least this confirms that a bomb didn’t explode somewhere, wiping out the entire population of this town. Either that or this guy is the sole survivor who takes his education way too seriously. 

Frank sighs, and he walks forward up the long thin path that leads to a short staircase. He climbs the steps slowly, as he has to pick up his suitcase and drag it up the few steps with him, but he’s exceedingly thankful to enter the lobby of the building a moment later, because of the warmth that greets him. The inside of the building is admittedly not as grandiose as the outside would have you believe. There’s a desk shoved to the side, with awful brown carpet beneath his feet that would surely cling to Velcro were you to try it out. There’s an arched doorway behind the desk that leads to the administrative office, and then doors on either side of the room, one labeled as the school museum, and the other appears to lead into a longer hallway, most likely filled with lecture halls.

There’s a lady behind the desk, clearly a student, who looks up when she sees him. She’s rather pretty, cropped dark hair and a contagious smile, so she radiates a feeling that Frank’s sure he won’t get a lot of, a welcoming one.

“Hey, uh, I’m Frank Iero, I’m new. I was just transferred here?”

“Yeah, we’ve been expecting you,” the woman nods. “You’re the new replacement for the hockey team, right?”

When Frank nods she continues, “I hope you’re as good as they say, because we really need it.” She stares at her screen, clicks a few things, and then the sound of a printer groaning fills the room. Frank waits for her to stand up, walk into the small office behind her, and then she grabs a couple of papers as they come from the machine, returning a few seconds later. 

“Here you go,” she says, handing them to Frank when she walks back over. The papers are still warm from the printer and Frank stares down at them. “This first one is your room assignment, you’re in the Lancaster building on the south side of campus. Your roommate is named Ray, he’s another team member, and a very nice guy to the best of my knowledge, so hopefully you’ll be able to assimilate into campus well, but you’re going to have a lot of catching up to do since you’re starting late.”

She also hands him a school badge, one without his picture, and she tells him that it’s just a temporary one so that he can get into his dorm, but he’s going to need to apply for an official one soon. 

“Okay,” Frank nods, and she shuffles the order of papers around to show him the campus map, where she then gives him directions to get to his dorm, and then shows him where the rink is. It looks like he’s in the dorm closest to the rink which should be convenient. His course schedule isn’t completely finalized yet, but she assures him that he should be getting an email anytime soon.

The suddenness, and odd circumstances that have led him here today are hugely inconvenient for all parties involved, but luckily, it’s only a month into the semester, so hopefully he’s only going to be killing himself a little bit to catch up, rather than totally and completely. It’s been a whirlwind of a week, Frank’s not sure how he’s standing here with all the uncertainty and confusion that he’s faced the past few days, but he tries to reassure himself that it’s worth it. There are far more positives to this dramatic change than there are negatives. 

“As soon as you drop your stuff off, you’re going to want to go to the hockey rink, there’s a practice right now, you’re actually already late.”

“My plane only got in a little while ago,” Frank says, “and I couldn’t get a taxi, I had to walk.”

The woman shrugs, “just make your way over there quick as you can, because the team might not be as understanding of that as I am. The whole school is pretty bummed, we lost our only good player, so you’re going to face the butt of that, unfortunately.”

“Yeah, I know,” Frank nods, aware that this was going to be a likelihood. No one wants to be the replacement, and when you’re replacing one of the only decent players the team even has, that just makes you everyone’s least favorite person. After a quick thanks, he rushes out of the office, and then back into the chilly air outside. He makes his way down the steps, his suitcase clunking along with loud, unpleasant bumps behind him.

Once Frank finds himself in the heart of campus, he realizes that the buildings aren’t what make this school beautiful. It is undoubtedly beautiful, though. The trees are all a bright orange, or red, or burgundy color, as if showing off their plumage like a haughty male bird. The grass is a dazzling green that perfectly fits the aesthetic of the nature taking over. The school, and even the town, looks as though it’s being overtaken by nature, and it’s beautiful. The buildings just seem like they’re intruding on this tiny little spot of heaven, tucked into the smallest, most insignificant part of the world.

The whole town smells of pine, like a Christmas town getting ready for the season, but it’s only early October. He can’t imagine how beautiful this place must get in the winter. 

As soon as Frank makes his way through the actual campus of the school, he starts to see real people for the first time. He’d come to believe that this town might just be completely deserted. No one actually looks at him for more than a second, not interested in who he is or why he’s starting school a month into the semester.

Frank didn’t even know he’d be switching schools until three days ago. 

Frank got a call, out of the blue, right in the middle of his calculus class, asking him if he would be interested in a full four-year scholarship to a school he’d almost chosen to attend, playing for a hockey team that hasn’t won an NCAA tournament in over forty years. From the little information he was given, it seems that their team captain had a career ending knee injury a few days previously and Frank was at the top of their list to replace him. Why on earth _he_ was at the top of their list, he doesn’t know but that is the situation as it has presented itself. 

It’s all been pretty much a whirlwind, he hasn’t had enough time to get his feet underneath him. He’s not sure why he’s here, why he even left Boston, one of the best teams in the D1 League, for a school in the lowermost tier. Hell, they haven’t even competed in the Frozen Four since Frank’s been alive. The sixty thousand dollars he saves a year might have something to do with his decision, and by ‘something,’ it of course has _everything_ to do with it.

Even the threat of a bad team can’t change the dramatic scholarship he’s been offered. With that kind of offer, he’s barely going to have any student debt at all in four years. That’s just too good to pass up, even if the team isn’t exactly the greatest. 

He finds his dorm, it’s not hard when there’s street signs all over the place pointing in the direction that Lancaster Hall is. one of the taller buildings on campus, but according to the paper in his hands, he’s only on the second floor, in what appears to be the wing that houses mainly students involved with sports, according to the itinerary on the second sheet down. 

Frank makes quick work of dragging his one, sad, lonely little suitcase into the dorm. He’s also got his gym bag, but of course he’s got his gym bag. The rest of his stuff he’s going to have shipped, but the short notice didn’t allow him a lot of flexibility. He finds his room easily, taking a deep breath before he steps into his new home for the first time.

On first appearance, his roommate seems to be fairly tidy, not exactly up to Frank’s standards, but they’ll manage. He’s got posters hung up on all the walls, everything from Iron Maiden to The Bouncing Souls, so Frank imagines he’s going to be getting along very well with this guy. Frank’s bed is elevated, with a desk underneath it, and he looks around, realizing that there’s not enough room to take it down, like his roommate has done, with his desk shoved against the wall. Frank’s just going to have to live with being in a bunk, but luckily, he’s short enough that he won’t be hitting his head on the ceiling. 

Overall, it looks quite a bit like his room at Boston, only the slightest bit larger, and without the hurricane of a mess that his roommate left behind whenever he touched anything. Frank liked his roommate at Boston, not like they were best friends or anything, but he definitely could’ve had worse. 

There’s not much about Boston that he did like, though. The team was good, and really that’s all that mattered. Armstrong’s team is not nearly as good, some would say they’re downright bad, but sixty thousand dollars is a lot to turn your nose up at. Besides, Frank is a good hockey player, and one of the best fucking skaters this side of the Mississippi. Even if he does have a shitty ass team, that doesn’t mean he can’t shine. He’s done it before, pulled Jefferson, his high school, on his back like _Atlas_ , if he could pull that train wreck of a school forward, he can do it again.

Frank doesn’t spend too much time settling in, he instead throws his suitcase under the bed, and then jogs out of the dorm, in search of the rink. Strictly speaking, he is going to sleep in that bunk for the next eight months, yes, but it’s not his true home. His home will be the ice rink. 

Frank lives on the ice. He doesn’t feel right unless he’s on the ice. He hasn’t gone a day without scabby, bruised feet since he put on his first pair of ice skates, and he doesn’t think he ever could. He would rather die than not be on the ice. He’s also spent every single day of his life on the ice, save for when he gets his biannual cold, or occasional case of pneumonia. 

When Frank does lay eyes on the ice rink for the first time, the place where he’s going to devote every tiniest bit of his energy for the next four years, it’s a greatly important moment to him. He’s going to spend every single waking hour not in class in that ice rink.

Frank sees it looming before him the second it comes into eyesight. It’s huge, of course it is, it’s a hockey stadium, but Frank is always blown away by how big a new stadium is. He only just got used to how big Boston was, now he’s going to have to strap himself in for another world of disbelief. 

Frank runs towards it, eager to get out of the now harder pouring rain, and eager to just breathe the air in there. He won’t be able to put all of this change into perspective until he steps foot in that stadium, once he does, things are sure to become a whole lot clearer. 

Frank throws the double doors open excitedly, and he’s met with the familiar entryway. All schools have pretty much the same entrance for every hockey stadium, only the trophy case for this school is rather barren. Regardless, Frank smiles just being in his new home for the first time, and he familiarizes himself with every little thing he can as he makes his way towards the ice. 

The hall leads into the stands almost immediately after the less-than-grand entry way, and Frank looks up and around him, trying to memorize every tiny little thing. It’s not a big stadium, of course, or at least not compared to a professional stadium, with only ten rows of seats which wrap around the entirety of the rink, and some elevated seating on the long sides that add an additional ten rows. The seats are old, greying ones, and the ceiling above him is primarily made of windows, making the entire building a bright white to reflect the color of the sky outside. In front of him, Frank’s met with the school’s name printed in enormous letters, encompassing all of the back wall. At center ice is the team logo, the Green Knights, and Frank feels pride at his new team’s name, even though he’s only just arrived.

He’s already bonded with the team, it’s going to be his after all, he just is wary about the players. It’s not the game he’s worried about, because he’s damn good, it’s the players liking him and cooperating with him that he has to deal with now. This is his team, he’s a Green Knight, now he just has to wait it out until everyone else comes to grips with that. 

Something about this school does however click in a way that Boston hadn’t. Somehow, he feels more comforted by his surroundings here, maybe it’s the ambiance of the town, maybe it’s just the cushion that his scholarship allows him to feel. Whatever it is, he feels far less wary about the next four years when he’s in this ice rink, far more so than at Boston. 

Sitting in one of the seats near the entrance is a man who turns to look at Frank as soon as he steps forward into the stands. The man immediately jumps up and hurries over to Frank, probably to kick Frank out because it’s supposed to be a closed practice. 

“Whoa whoa whoa,” the man says, stopping Frank before he can even see the players. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

“I’m Frank,” Frank says, to the man. He’s not an official looking man, but he’s wearing an official looking jacket that says ‘Assistant Coach’ so Frank is given to believe that this man is far more official than his outward appearance would suggest. He looks like a hobo, but like a charming hobo. Like a hobo who does art maybe, because his hands are covered with either paint or marker or something artsy. His hair is long and scraggly, and kind of unwashed which is the main trait that makes Frank think he looks like a hobo, but he’s also got clothes that are three shades greyer than they once were, and also happen to be at least two sizes too big for him.

“Frank?” the guy asks, looking down at his clipboard and then shuffling through the papers to find anything that would indicate as to why a person named Frank would be here. “Oh… Frank. Like Lance’s replacement?”

“I suppose?” Frank shrugs, because he hadn’t known the name of the guy he’s replacing, but Lance is as good a name as any.

“Right, great,” the guy says. “So, the team are kind of tetchy about that right now, but like, good luck out there,” and then under his breath he says, “you’re going to need it.” He allows Frank to walk past him, without offering him any more words than that. Frank walks past him, nervously, totally unsure of what to do now.

“Wait, so, uh, where do I go?” Frank asks.

“Go talk to Coach,” the man replies.

“And where might I find him?” Frank asks.

“ _She_ is over there on the bench,” the man says, pointing to the penalty bench, where a woman is leaning over the side watching the players, all of which are on the ice, and their sheer number is intimidating to Frank.

Frank walks over to the woman, feeling trepidation. She’s not an older lady, but not a younger one either. She’s got very distinctive graying blond hair, and the beginnings of wrinkles starting to form on her face, making her look wise and all-knowing. When Frank walks over to her, she doesn’t even look at him until he clears his throat, too entranced with the drills her team is running. 

“Frank, you’re here,” the woman says, turning to look at him. Frank is relieved that the woman knows who he is, and seems excited by his presence, but all of a sudden, the entire rink of skaters are all looking at him too, and he doesn’t know how to handle that much attention. He’s being eaten alive by many people all at once, and it’s unsettling to say the least. 

“I am,” Frank nods, and she smiles, far more welcomingly than he had expected.

“Great!” she says, and then turns her attention to her team, who have all gathered near the penalty box to get a good look at him. Frank can now get a good look at some of them as well, and they’re terrifying. All large groups of men whom you’ve never met before are, though. There’s fifteen of them in all, and Frank looks at all of their faces, knowing that he’s going to have to memorize all of these faces in the coming weeks. Some of these people are going to become the most important people in his entire life very soon, he’s sure of that much. Some of them he doesn’t know if he’s going to be able to trust.

There’s one guy, an average heighted guy, with the fiercest of eyebrows the world has ever seen. His hair is dark brown, his face turned into what looks to be a permanent scowl. Frank thinks that he’d rather see Slenderman coming at him in a dark alley than this guy.

Then there are some less intimidating faces, such as the guy whose helmet can barely contain his crazy head of hair. There’s one guy who looks like he spends his life sucking on a lemon, or maybe that’s just what he feels about Frank, but Frank can tell even while he’s got his pads on that he is too thin to be at all threatening. 

“This is our new forward, Frank Iero, who’ll be taking Lance’s place,” the woman says, and turns back to Frank. “I’m coach Meryl Bertie, but you can just call me Coach.”

“Hi, Coach,” Frank says uncomfortably, and then semi-addresses the team, “I’m Frank.”

Coach looks back at her team, and tells them to keep running the drills they’d been doing, and the assistant coach who’d stopped Frank earlier takes to yelling at them when they don’t immediately do as she’d asked.

“I’m glad you’re here, Frank,” she says, focusing her attention on him for a moment, rather than the team, “I was really hoping we’d get you this year, very unfortunate the circumstances that brought you here, though.”

“Yeah,” Frank says, “I heard about what happened. It happened during practice?”

“Oh, yeah, Lance is never listening to what I ask of him, and this time it went downhill fast. He fell on his knee wrong, and it’s serious. The teams heartbroken, because he may never be able to play again. That’s why we needed a replacement ASAP, and I’m the one who requested you.”

“Really?” Frank asks.

“Well, I had some other people in mind if you declined the offer, but I think you’re going to be a very good fit for this team. We need a fresh face around here anyway.”

“Why me though?” Frank asks, because it’s the most burning question on his mind, “there’s tons of good hockey players out there, surely there was someone, maybe even at this school, who could have replaced him?”

He understands why they would recruit a freshman to take the place of the injured guy, because there’s no way that they’d be able to steal some other teams MVP, but what drew Frank specifically into the mix is a mystery. 

“Someone to fill his place, maybe, but no one to _replace_ him. Not like what this team needs at least, we need someone great. Truth is, you attended my old high school, and the Hawks hadn’t seen a good season in several years, but you brought us back, singlehandedly I might add. I want to see you do that for both my alma maters, so call me biased if you have to.”

Frank feels an almost instant connection at this, because that does explain a few things. He’d had a few scouts who’d been eyeing him, Armstrong University included, but why a university would reach out to him in mid-October hadn’t made much sense until now. Team loyalty is one of the biggest fuels in any sport.

Frank wouldn’t say he was the _reason_ for why Jefferson, won their first state tournament in over ten years, but he was certainly a contributing factor. But he’s just being modest, of course, he is _definitely_ the reason they won. He carried that team, and now that he’s gone, they’re surely going to resort back to mediocrity. 

“We’ve already got a small enough team, smaller than almost all the other teams in the league, we can’t afford to go without another player.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Frank says, “only sixteen?”

“We’re not on the top of most people’s lists when it comes to teams.”

“Well, no offense, but I get why,” Frank says, because when you haven’t won anything in over forty years, it’s not hard to guess why people don’t tend to want to go to this school.

“But we’re gonna make a comeback this year,” Coach says, “but that’s what every coach says every year when their team sucks. But I’ve got a good feeling about it this time round.” 

Frank shrugs and nods a little.

“Well anyway,” Coach says, looking at Frank, and noticing his bag, “You’ve got your gear then?”

“Well, pads and stuff, yeah,” Frank says.

“Great, I’ll order your jersey soon, but right now I want you to get on the ice and warm up,” she says, “you’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

“I’m sure,” Frank nods, and he follows where she points, contemplating a lot of things all at once. 

He’s absolutely terrified right now. It’s almost like starting college all over again. It’s like the first day of kindergarten even. He doesn’t know anybody, he’s intimidated, everyone is bigger than him, and everyone seems as though they’re goal is to dislike him. 

But at the same time, Frank is ready to spread his wings and make this place his own. And he does intend to make it his own, Frank has a habit of claiming his own territory, and when it comes to ice, he always owns it. He’s always been that way. As a kid, skating on the small pond near his house, it was nicknamed Iero’s pond, because there was never a moment when you couldn’t find Frank practicing something on the ice, whether he was having a hockey game with the neighbor kids, or choreographing a routine, it just became _his_ to a point where people just ran with it. It happened again at the Jefferson arena, because there wasn’t a doubt who owned that rink. They even named a bench outside of it after him, because he was the one who brought that team to victory, three years in a row.

Frank intends to make this rink his own too. He’ll share it of course, but no one will ever doubt that he was meant to be here, never question his right to belong, because he is meant to be wherever the ice takes him. And here he decides, is as good a place as any to start his life and prove his worth to anyone who doubts him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not too sure how much I like this first chapter, but I've been working on this fic for at least a couple of months and I want to finally share it. Please leave a comment if this interests you so far, and I promise that it will get better from here on, despite this first chapter being kind of bland.


	2. ...Into the Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What’s that scent Frank smells in the air? Ah yes, the familiar fragrance of institutionalized homophobia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](https://s20.postimg.org/70pbseeul/Daylight.png)  
> 
> 
>  
> 
> Look at this fucking gorgeous cover art!

Frank changes into his practice gear as quickly as he possibly can, eager to get out on the ice, and feel it beneath him for the first time in what feels like forever. He skated yesterday, but still, it feels like at least a couple of years to him.

Frank gets on the ice maybe five minutes later, because when he is in a hurry, he gets shit done. He doesn’t want to waste any more time though, he wants to feel the ice beneath his skates. 

He hurries back into the auditorium, opening the double doors and then walking past the bench so that he can join his new team. He’s ready, far beyond ready, do prove to them why he’s here, because once he’s on the ice, there won’t be a doubt as to why. The second he’s on the ice, it’s like returning home. It feels familiar, comforting, and _right_. He thinks he’ll be able to get used to this place, somehow, it feels more open, larger, even though he knows it isn’t. It feels different though, good different. He might learn to love it here. 

Frank watches the skaters passing by him, not intent on looking at their faces yet, because on the ice, he doesn’t really care who is who. They’re all his teammates, so he relies on all of them individually and as a team. 

The boy with the eyebrows who looks like he spends his free time researching medieval torture devices, gives Frank this _look_ , like he has already plotted his demise. It gives Frank what he would call the heebie-jeebies, were he not a grown fucking man. Sort of. He may be the size of a small child, but according to his driver’s license he’s a legal adult who just so happens to have both the mind and body of a small child. But like, a small child whose good at skating around and hitting things with a stick.

A guy skates up to him, stopping immediately in front of him, kicking some ice at his feet. Frank looks up to see the guy, and it’s the one who’s got the colossal bush of hair. 

He holds out his hand, and with a voice Frank is surprised to hear come out of this man, says, “I’m Ray, I’m your roommate. Nice to meet you.”

“Hey, hi. Frank,” Frank says, taking his hand, and nodding at him in what he hopes is a friendly way. He’s not good at making friends, never has been, probably never will be. His two loves are skating and thinking about skating when he’s not skating, there’s really not a lot of time in between for friends. In perspective, he’s never even really had a friend. He’s had acquantances and people who he spent time with but that was because of convenience. Anytime after third grade, when every kid was invited to birthday parties, he hasn’t even hung out with anyone outside of school. He’ll run into a classmate at a grocery store every now and again, but he’s never been to a friend’s house, apart from his neighbor, but she doesn’t really count because technically she was his babysitter. 

Frank looks at the rest of the players on the ice, none of whom have stopped to pay him any mind, but then again, none of them will be living five feet away from him for the next year. Frank watches as they run some basic passing drills, and then directs his attention back to Ray. Ray is a goalie, a _goaltender_ , strictly speaking, judging by his skates and padding.

“Nice to meet you, Frank,” Ray says. “I gotta keep warming up, but I’m glad you’re here.”

Frank nods, and says to himself, “you’ll be the only one.”

Coach fills Frank in, and sets him off to jump into the drill. Frank gets into the swing of things pretty easily, though he feels weird without his own hockey stick with him. He couldn’t exactly carry a hockey stick on the plane, or at least he couldn’t if he didn’t want an elderly lady to think he was about to bludgeon her to death in an airport bathroom, so that’s being shipped with all of his other stuff. This stick feels weird to him, the tape job is all wrong, the grip is weird, and if it’s not his stick than it’s just stupid. He can’t wait till that gets here, because he’s not going to be at the top of his game until it does. 

Frank doesn’t get passed the puck for the first twenty minutes or so, because he’s still a stranger on foreign ice to these people, but eventually, a vaguely Scandinavian looking guy which considering this is hockey is not that surprising, passes him the puck and Frank can finally feel like he’s being some use. 

After that, people start to accept that Frank is on the ice and he’s unavoidable because of that. The assistant coach, whom Frank quickly finds out is bad cop, while Coach is good cop, keeps yelling at Frank for not being where he wants him to be. But how the fuck is Frank supposed to know where to be? He hasn’t seen any game plans, he doesn’t know any of these guys fucking names let alone their skills or strengths? He’s just sort of _here_ right now.

Frank pretty much tunes out the world for most of the next three hours, he tends to do that when he’s on the ice. He just sort of gets into his own and lets the ice speak through him. He meets some of his teammates in passing, a guy called Travie whose unsettlingly pretty considering that they’re all sweating buckets. Travie is nice, a forward like Frank, and good on his skates, but he needs some work when it comes to sharing the ice, he’s not very aware of his own place on the team, which Frank supposes makes sense when you consider how fractured this team seems to be. They’re not working together properly, it’s like all these guys have been thrown together by picking names out of a hat, and now they have to try to work together. They need more direction, and judging from how consistently the assistant coach is yelling at them, they’re not listening. They’re getting the feedback they need, they’re just not listening to it. 

The guy is yelling at them all the same complaints Frank has about them, but no one is listening, especially not Eyebrows, the guy who keeps giving him the stink eye in the very brief intervals when he’s able to make eye contact with him. The team is not coordinated, that’s what they lack, they lack direction and teamwork. They’re a bunch of guys who are good on ice, good at passing, but they’re not working together. Frank doesn’t have any problem with being a bossy little know it all if he has to be to make this team better, so he stores all his critiques into a little crevice of his brain, so that he can bring them out at a later time. 

Another guy Frank meets, mostly in passing, is called Brendon and he gives him a wary look before his eyes keep darting over to number 14 like he knows something Frank doesn’t know. Number 14 is the guy with the eyebrows, who, according to his jersey is named Fahey. He’s one of the few with their jerseys on, the rest of them are all just wearing practice jerseys, not even Ray, who thus far has been the only genuinely friendly person besides the coach, is wearing his jersey. 

Frank tries to ask Brendon what that guys problem is, but he’s skating away before Frank is given a chance. It’s alright, though, Frank knew not everyone would like him. He’s made enemies before, that’s one thing he’s good at. They’re not so much enemies though, rather people who are jealous of him. Frank has a habit of being the center of attention when he’s on the ice, usually because he skates circles around everyone else out there. 

Frank actually feels like he might empathize a little with Eyebrows. He’s been that guy before. Eyebrows is a forward, and by the looks of it, he’s one of the best guys on the team. Eyebrows is probably used to being the best guy on the team, and he’s probably bitter that the new guy is about as good as him. That’s pretty much how everyone reacts when they see Frank on the ice for the first time, though. “Oh shit, he’s good,” is the catchphrase that follows Frank wherever he goes. Eyebrows Fahey is probably feeling a little intimidated by him right now which is saying something because he’s got to be at least five inches taller than Frank. 

Frank is literally only ever intimidating when he’s on the ice. He’s a small, rather naïve, extremely uncoordinated noodle when not on the ice. Put him in skates and you’ve got yourself a Greek god, but off, not so much.

Whatever it is that Eyebrow Fahey dislikes about him, it is directly correlated to his hockey ability, because other than that, Frank has nothing to be jealous of, because Frank has nothing else. His sense of humor is sour, his math abilities are severely lacking, he can’t make friends, and he is very bad at not injuring himself, and on occasion, others. He doesn’t hurt people on purpose, disaster just follows him when he’s not on the ice, which is why skating is an escape.

Frank never feels second best when he’s on the ice. So, he’s not going to let a guy whose eyebrow game is admittedly far stronger than his ruin that for him. 

“Alright team,” Coach says, after about three hours of what Frank would call extremely easy practicing. Frank is used to intense practices, ones that leave him stiff and in pain the next morning, and honestly, that’s the type he prefers. That’s when he knows that he did a good job, got a lot of work done. “Let’s pack it in for the night.”

Coach gives the team what Frank would call a pep talk if they deserved it, but since they really don’t, it’s undeserved flattery. The team is not that good. They do not deserve a pep talk, they deserve a ‘get your shit together’ talk. From the looks of it, the assistant coach is thinking the same thing Frank is. 

Frank has a lot of work ahead of him. He would stay on the ice and train through the night, except he feels like he might fall asleep where he stands. Traveling always does this to him, he doesn’t know what it is about airplanes, but even the flights that only take an hour feel like three years. He needs sleep, and he’s got a long few weeks ahead of him, so whatever he can do to recharge himself in preparation for that is greatly needed.

Coach dismisses them after only a few minutes, and then a hoard of men, much like wildebeests, are all storming to get to the locker room first. 

“Out of my way,” Eyebrows says, whacking Frank’s shoulder with his own, not hard enough that he can even really feel it through his padding, but it’s not an entirely polite gesture. Intentionally walking into people tends to be an antagonistic thing to do. 

Frank decides that if he is the underappreciated somehow athletic nerd in a teenage romantic comedy, then Eyebrows is the slightly older, far better at attracting the opposite sex jock who will play no original, or even effectively climactic role in the movie other than to demonstrate the clichéd traits that are meant to represent what every girl wants in a man. Basically, Eyebrows is a character on Glee, and Frank is another character on Glee who is slightly more relatable, a lot gayer, and a little bit less of a douche. But let that not say that Frank is not slightly a douche, as it comes with the territory. No man whose life revolves around a sport isn’t at least slightly a douchebag.

Frank shrugs it off and he follows the rest of his teammates into the locker room, coming last, not wanting to disrupt any of their lives given that he’s already done it enough.

To be fair though, none of this is Frank’s fault. He didn’t cause this Lance guy to go and break his knee or whatever. He didn’t get asked to be recruited here and disrupt the order of the team. He didn’t ask to be thrust into any of this, least of all not this suddenly, so why he’s being treated like a villain here, especially by this Eyebrows guy, is a wonder.

No one really wants to look at him once they’re in the changing room. There’s no eye contact, there’s no looking at him while his back is turned and then abruptly looking away when he turns to face people. There’s no angry glaring. There’s just ignoring him. They all start into their own little conversation, chatter filling up the small echoing space, people talking about this or that, that and this, no one really bothering to engage Frank in the slightest.

Until Frank turns around, that is, and he’s met with a man whose somehow managed to change already, and he’s holding out his hand with a big dorky smile on his face that Frank thinks he could get used to. 

“I’m Pete,” he says, grabbing Frank’s hand and shaking it even before Frank has the time to process what’s going on. He just grabs Frank’s hand from his side and decides to shake it, because that’s just apparently the guy’s personality.

“Uh, Frank,” Frank says.

“Yeah, I know,” Pete says. “I’m the team captain, nice to meet you.”

“Oh hi,” Frank says, and he stops what he’s doing, puts the shoes he’d been about to pull on down, so that he can get on the good side of this guy, because if there’s anyone you don’t want to be on the bad side of, it’s the team captain. If it’s possible, he’d like to be this guy’s best friend, because if the captain likes him, maybe Frank will be given a better chance to show the team what he’s got. 

“We should talk. Coffee?” he offers, “soon as you’re finished changing?”

“Uh, yeah,” Frank says, blushing slightly. He’s not used to people being so forward, and it’s kind of invigorating. Pete’s kind of attractive, and Frank’s kind of thirsty. He knows that the guy only wants to talk because Frank is the new recruit, but he has a wild imagination, and eighteen years of built up tension. 

“Great,” Pete nods, and then he shouts across the locker room to somebody, “Toro, you want to get coffee?”

“Is the sky blue?” ‘Toro’ shouts back, and when Frank looks to see who this guy is, he’s surprised to find that it’s his roommate. So maybe he’ll make two whole acquaintances on his first day. That’s got to be a record for him. 

“Did someone say coffee?” a kid who honestly looks like he’s younger than Frank which is a lot coming from the guy who gets mistaken for fifteen on a good day. He’s lanky, and thin, with the physique of a piece of dental floss. Frank feels like a doting grandma encouraging her grandson to eat a shit ton of protein, because honestly, this boy looks like he could get sucked into an escalator, or lost between a couch cushion. He’s also got these bags under his eyes that make Frank want to call a doctor, because he can’t have gotten any sleep in the last three months. So, he’s a freshman. 

“You’re invited too if you bring your brother,” Pete says, and Frank charges through getting the rest of his stuff put away so that he’s ready. He’s never been invited to a social gathering before, he wants to be sufficiently prepared to go on a moment’s notice, because he doesn’t know how these things work.

“And I thought you liked me for my body,” the boy responds sarcastically, but he doesn’t look too upset.

“You wish,” Pete says, laughing at him before throwing something at him that does not look washed, and Frank wonders if that’s what having friends is like nowadays. Throwing dirty clothes at each other and making vaguely sexual jokes. Sounds like something people would do, but he’s never engaged in this whole friendship thing before so he could be watching an ancient mating ritual and he wouldn’t know the difference. 

One thing he does know about hockey players, though, is that they do not dig the whole gay thing. They’re totally fine with calling each other gay, because sports players have inherently archaic mindsets, but they do not like the concept one bit. As an insult ‘gay’ is superb, top of their list, but that’s where that list ends. So, Frank, like he has for his entire life, and will likely continue to do for the remainder of his life, says nothing on this topic, keeping his mouth zipped shut. 

“Morgan, you wanna get in on the coffee action up in this bitch?” Pete asks a guy, and since Frank is trying to learn these guy’s names and faces, he looks at the man who Pete’s talking to.

It turns out to be Eyebrows Fahey, who gives Pete a grimace, “with you fruits? Not a chance.” What’s that scent Frank smells in the air? Ah yes, the familiar fragrance of institutionalized homophobia. 

Frank has to reconcile this new name, Morgan, with the guys face and his already ever diminishing opinion of him. Or rather, he has to adjust to his name being Morgan, and not Eyebrows.

“No blueberry muffins for you,” Pete says, because apparently, this is a taunt that means something.

“I’ll live,” he replies, scathingly. He brushes past Frank in much the same fashion as earlier, hitting his shoulder intentionally and then smirking menacingly at him as if to dare Frank to say something about it. Frank, being the unconfrontational pansy that he is, says nothing and looks down at his shoes, making Morgan laugh at him.

“What’s his problem?” Frank asks when he’s confident that the guy is gone and out of earshot.

“Morgan’s just a jerk,” the guy who had introduced himself as Brendon says. “That’s like his thing? Ya know? Like some people are funny, some people are good at telling stories, some people are poets. Morgan just likes being a dick.”

“As opposed to you, who likes sucking dick,” says a voice from behind them, Frank can’t say from who, because there’s still a good dozen or so large men crowded into the locker room, but a couple of them chuckle at this, because that’s just what locker rooms are like. That, and so putrid smelling that it could kill a small child. 

Brendon just rolls his eyes, and finishes stuffing his gear into his backpack, saying sarcastically, “Oh how you’ve wounded me.” He doesn’t waste any more time before he’s walking past Frank and he hears a faint, “catch you later.”

Frank watches him walk away, trying to decide if this Brendon guy is on his side or not. So far, he just seems neutral.

“Hurry your ass up,” Pete says, kicking at the lanky kid’s gym bag, before being met with a huff in response.

“Calm your tits, I’m going as fast as I can,” the boy replies, he gets his shoe on and then he’s grabbing his things and walking over, apparently ready to go. 

“Took you long enough, sunshine,” Pete says, and Ray gives the guy whose name Frank still does not know a look in agreement. 

“That’s why I need coffee,” the guy says, and Pete starts off, with the others in his tow. Frank follows the boys out of the locker room, feeling a little nervous at the prospect of interacting with other people in his age group, a foreign concept that he thought was reserved to TV shows and his imagination. No one had been this friendly at Boston, no one gave two shits about him off the ice. On it, he was a star, the guy everyone wanted to get close to, but off of it, he was like a piece of equipment.

They exit back into the rink, and then have to make their way through the entrance to get to the doors.

“So, Frank,” Pete says, “what are you majoring in?”

“I’m, uh, I’m undeclared,” Frank says, because he hasn’t given any thought at all to what he wants to do in his life. College isn’t even about getting a degree, it’s just a tool to play more hockey, to be on the ice. In two years, he still probably won’t know what he wants to do with the rest of his life. If it’s not skating, it’s not worth it. 

“Ah, cool,” Pete says. “Life is only about hockey, right?”

“Well, yeah,” Frank nods, blushing a little bit, but the three other guys all nod along like they agree with him.

“Hockey and, like, Star Wars,” the thin one says, and Frank laughs at that. “Dude, what? Fucking fight me?”

“No, man Star Wars is great,” Frank says, still laughing.

“Damn right,” he replies, and then seems to remember that he hadn’t introduced himself, “I’m Mikey by the way.”

“Frank,” Frank replies. He’s going to get sick of introducing himself soon.

Frank heads towards the door, but Pete stops him, and Frank watches, eyebrows screwed up in confusion when they all head back to look at the stadium. Frank follows them though, to see that the Coach and assistant coach are still there, talking to each other about something. Frank supposes they might be talking about him, or about how they’re going to strategize this season now that he’s here. 

“Gee,” the guy whose name is Mikey yells at the two, and the assistant coach turns to look at them.

“Yeah?”

“Coffee?” Mikey asks.

“Fuck yeah,” ‘Gee’ calls back. “Just gimme one minute.”

Frank stops, and waits, a little annoyed, because four people is a lot of people for Frank to try to communicate with at one time. His limit is usually two. He doesn’t like interacting with any more than that, because life gets difficult beyond that point. But he’s in a new town, people are actually making an attempt to get to know him, so he’s going to be polite and put up with however many people he has to. Besides, if he’s lucky, and plays his cards right, he might actually make a friend which will be an achievement that is comparable to the Stanley Cup for Frank. Actually, that’s inaccurate. Frank would have way less trouble winning the Stanley Cup than he would making a friend. 

The rest of them all turn to each other as they wait for what Frank hopes is the last of their party, and Pete starts talking about, well, hockey.

“But like that goal that Morgan made in practice, that was fucking gorgeous, wasn’t it?”

“I was distracted!” Ray says, like he’s trying to defend himself, unlike the goal he’d been stood in front of earlier, “I totally could have blocked that, but I wasn’t paying enough attention.”

“Dude, he’s your teammate, you can at least pretend to appreciate him,” Pete says.

“He’s a dick,” Mikey says, because apparently, this is the running theme of opinions about this Morgan guy amidst the team.

“But he’s a dick who is great at hockey,” Pete says, and Frank has to admit, he makes a valid point. “I don’t like him anymore than the rest of you, but man, he’s going on to the NHL for sure.”

Frank doesn’t have much to say about him, because, from what he saw, Pete’s right, the guy can play, and he works as a part of the team better than some of the other guys out there today, but off the ice, he doesn’t seem to have that same streak. 

“Whatever, man,” Mikey rolls his eyes.

“Frank,” Pete says, and Frank gets worried that he’s going to ask Frank’s opinion of the guy, but instead he says, “you were really good out there today.”

“Oh, uh, thanks,” Frank says, pink flushing the tips of his ears. 

“No, seriously dude,” Pete says, “you’re flat out awesome. Lance is pretty tight too, don’t get me wrong, but he was kinda, I don’t know, set in his ways. Lance was captain, so I’ve only been in charge for like three days, but man, I feel like I’ve got a chance to turn us around.”

“You need it,” Frank says, and then regrets saying that, and he turns pink, while Pete just laughs at his words.

“Don’t we know it,” he replies, hitting Frank in the shoulder which Frank supposes is a friendly gesture but it kind of hurts. Without his gear on, Frank bruises like a peach. He bruises like a peach with it on too, but it’s not as noticeable.

“Alright, coffee,” a new voice says, and Frank is surprised to see that the guy who they had been waiting for has joined them. He didn’t even see the guy approaching. 

Pete grabs his hand and Frank witnesses, for the first time in his entire life, one of those dorky ass bro handshakes that he honest to God thought were fabricated by the television industry. He’s tempted to voice his sheer surprise, but he decides not to, because what if everyone has those handshakes with people, and Frank just doesn’t know about it because he has no friends. While unlikely, that eventuality is not completely off the table. 

“Frank?” the guy asks, when he notices Frank amongst the group.

“What?”

He stops and just stares at him for a minute before he’s saying “You skate weird.” He says it like an insult but it doesn’t even reach that level of indecency. 

“Okay?”

“Like, you skate like a girl, did you know that?” the man tells him, which Frank’s heard before, and he’s sure to hear again, because he does skate like a girl. He was trained by a girl, his neighbor, a girl who went on to win four statewide figure skating gold medals before retiring, so he’s not going to be offended being compared to someone as good as her. She is probably the closest thing that Frank ever had to a friend, but more than that, she’s his role model. 

“I don’t take that as an insult,” Frank replies. 

The man nods, looking surprised but pleased with his response. “You’re still going to get eaten alive, kid, but not for nothing, I think you might be able to take it.”

Frank literally doesn’t have anything to say that, before he’s contemplating whether this guy likes or dislikes him, because the answer is not clear. 

“I’m Gerard, by the way, and I’m the guy who’s going to be putting you through the most hell,” and he winks, and Frank definitely turns pink at that. Frank has become ever more uncertain whether he has just made a friend or foe, but he’s sure that the drama will play itself out in its due course. 

Frank decides that this Gerard guy is pretty once you get past his slightly homeless appearance. His hair is in desperate need for both a cut and a wash, but his face is nice. He’s got the cutest nose Frank thinks he’s ever seen, so he desperately _hopes_ that this guy turns out more as a friend than an enemy, but the chips will fall where they may. 

“Ugh, Gerard, stop flirting,” Mikey says, whom Frank infers must be Gerard’s brother. Frank goes a little pinker, but he puts his head down, and just shrugs. The guys respond to a sound Pete makes that translates to ‘should we go?’ and they begin to make their way back towards the front door. The detour wasn’t even really a detour, when you consider how small the arena really is.

Before they can leave though, someone is calling out for them to wait.

“Ya’ll have got to be kidding if you think you can get coffee without me,” says the boy who Frank thinks was called Travie. He’s very attractive, and Frank has to contain himself a little bit, because he’s in a new place surrounded by literally so many pretty people and it’s going to make him explode. Everyone though, is fucking gorgeous, and it’s killing him. He wants to flirt with _everybody_ , wants to be flirted with, but not as a joke like he knows it’s going to be for the rest of his hockey career.

Frank just takes a deep breath and tells himself that he can hold himself back, he’s resisted temptation fairly well for the last eighteen years, he can continue to do so.

Maybe it’s something in the water here, but everyone is way prettier than they were back at either Jefferson or Boston. Now to be fair, in high school, everyone had acne and they wore Nike shirts, but still, it’s insane how attractive people are here.

“Coffee, coffee, coffee,” Mikey starts chanting as they finally walk out into the crisp October air, the rain having stopped but the sky is a dark black, swallowing the lights of the streetlamps around them with no hint of remorse. 

Frank smiles a little to himself, because there’s something charming about this little group of guys. A part of him, actually the majority, is terrified, because this might be his first and last chance to actually make friends. Frank is hopeful, because at this point, he doesn’t have anything to lose, but he has a whole hell of a lot to gain. All he really has is hope, and hope, he thinks, is all he really needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, in case you hadn't noticed, I changed the title of this fic from 'Broken Wings' to 'All We Need is Daylight' and I cannot recommend enough the song ([Daylight](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zSXK1ETyA7g) by Young Guns) the title is from. Please leave a comment, I love you all for reading!


	3. Living in a Dream Is So Easy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please put 'Nothing says boner kill like Aquaman' on my tombstone.

Frank discovers that there is not only one, not only two, not only three, but four total Starbucks across campus. And that’s just campus, there’s two more in town. So, at any given time, you are never more than a thousand feet away from a Starbucks. 

Frank is taken to one such Starbucks, where he is blissfully given the opportunity to drink coffee. He’s been suffering from caffeine withdrawal recently, he was starting to get a headache. He’s forced to get decaf, considering it’s so late, but the taste should be enough to trick his brain for the time being. Or maybe he just really missed the taste of coffee, he doesn’t want to rule that out as a possibility. Frank is in college, coffee is like air for people in college, without it, you will literally die. Literally just fucking die. 

“So, Frank,” Pete says, “where were you before?”

“Uh, Boston,” Frank says.

“Boston?” Pete asks, looking excited by the name. “Dude, they’re team is fucking amazing.”

“Yeah,” Frank shrugs. 

“Slightly worse now though, huh?” Pete asks, and Frank blushes. They’d had a full team, twenty players, with probably another eighty on standby in case of injuries. Boston’s not really going to be missing him much. Armstrong is a poor little school that’s in no one’s sight for any reason other than price. You don’t attend this place for the sports teams. Or the quality of education, for that matter. 

“Please,” Gerard says, “Boston has one of the best coaches, not only in college hockey, but in all of hockey. They’ve competed in the Frozen four six times in the last ten years, and won four of those times. A school that good does not plummet because of the loss of one guy. Boston is like a hydra, you get rid of one good player, three better players grow in his place.”

“Dude,” Pete says, hitting Gerard in the side at that, but Frank just shrugs.

“No, it’s fine,” Frank says, “I wasn’t under the impression that my loss would mean much of anything to them. They’re good. They’re damn good. If you could see them, oh man. It’s like nothing you could ever imagine, a well-oiled machine. A team like that doesn’t suffer, or have bad days, they’re good on days when they don’t win, good on days when they do.”

“Literally shut up, or I’m gonna cry,” Mikey says, scoffing. “Just ‘cause we suck doesn’t mean I like to hear about it.”

“It’s not that we suck, per se,” Travie says, “it’s just that everyone else is better.”

“No, you kinda suck,” Gerard says.

“Fuck off,” several voices say in unison at him. Frank grins and sips his coffee, cozying himself up against the window, and vacantly looking out of it at the school outside.

The town is illuminated only slightly by the light of the lampposts, and Frank smiles. Frank has always been fond of lampposts. There’s something about them, they’re quaint, but somehow pretty. Maybe it’s because his mom liked lampposts, she liked them so much she put a lamppost in the living room, called it a character piece. Lampposts just remind him of home, remind him of his mother. It’s almost like he can see his mom smiling when they turn on at night. 

“Who’s your team, Frank?” Pete asks, breaking Frank out of his reverie. 

“What?” Frank says, looking confused at the vague question.

“Where’d you grow up?” Pete asks, “who’s your team?”

“Oh,” Frank says, understanding, “The Devils.”

“Sweet,” Mikey says, and he pats Frank on the back, apparently approving. Frank looks around at the rest of them, sees Gerard smiling at that, though he doesn’t know why he cares about Gerard’s opinion, but he does, and there’s nothing to be done of that. Gerard and Mikey are brothers, they’re Devils fans, which means in all likelihood they’re from New Jersey. 

“Where in Jersey are you from?” Frank asks, and he directs the question at Gerard rather than at Mikey. He wants to hear Gerard talk some more, try to get a read on this guy who’s going to be coaching him, and as he says, giving him hell. 

“Belleville,” Gerard says, “so is Ray.”

“No kidding,” Frank says, smiling, “I’m from just outside of there. You played hockey?”

“Yeah,” Gerard says, and then laughs, “you know, you actually beat Mikey’s team three years in a row, though he didn’t want me to mention it.”

“Asshole,” Mikey says, and Frank can tell that he kicks his brother under the table, but Gerard just laughs further at it. 

“Sorry about that,” Frank says, though he’s not. He does remember absolutely throttling the high school Mikey would logically have gone to three years in a row, and it’s not his fault that they sucked. Frank’s team wasn’t too hot either, but Frank was doing most of the work, and their opposing teams weren’t a match for a team with Frank on it. 

Frank has a habit of raising the standards of everything he touches, he’s great on group projects too. That doesn’t mean Frank doesn’t work damn hard, because you’d better believe it that Frank deserves the success he has. Frank is more deserving of the accomplishments he’s garnered than almost anyone, because he puts blood, sweat, and tears into everything he does. 

“No, you’re not,” Mikey groans, and he looks red, as everyone stares at him judgingly. “Fuck off, all of you. I’m fantastic, it was my team that sucked.”

“I was on that team,” Ray says, looking at him with this look on his face.

“If the shoe fits-” Mikey says before Ray is punching him in the arm.

“You watch your mouth or I’ll hit you _with_ my damn shoe,” Ray says. 

“Well,” Pete says, “while you all squabble, I’ll just sit here with my superiority complex and laugh at all of you, who are beneath me.”

“No one asked you Pete,” Mikey and Gerard say together, and yeah, Frank can see how they’re related.

Travie turns to Frank at this and says, “Pete’s from Chicago, he holds it over us every second he gets that his team is better than all of ours.” 

Frank shrugs, “fair enough man, you don’t have to be a genius to see that the Blackhawks are the best team in the world right now.” Frank leaves out the part at the end where he’s tempted to say ‘possibly ever.’

“Aha!” Pete says, ecstatic that someone agrees with him, but both he and Frank are smacked in the arm because of this, and Frank, not used to being physically hurt as a sign of friendship, is alarmed. He feels kind of warm and fuzzy though, because no one has ever considered him a friend enough to be an asshole to him. And from what Frank gathers, that’s the true sign of friendship. 

Frank actually starts to really enjoy himself after a little while. He’s talking with real, actual people, and enjoying it. And they seem to enjoy his presence? That’s an absolute first, Frank has never been enjoyable in anyone’s eyes aside from his own mothers.

These guys seem to be really great though. He actually learns a lot about them. Ray is probably his music soulmate, and the fact that this guy is his roommate is like a match made in heaven. They start getting really deep talking about punk bands and garage bands that they both have seen, some concerts that they’ve both been to and could’ve met at but missed each other. All of them pretty much agree with their music taste, but no one is as necessarily interested about talking about very specific guitar riffs with him as Ray is.

Frank actually feels excitement bubbling in his very bones at the prospect of being friends with these guys, because he just _likes_ them. He actually really enjoys their company. Frank has not had a very exciting life, which is evident by the fact that talking to this group of guys is one of the best moments of his life.

They actually like him though, or it seems that way, he’s prompted questions, treated like a member of a group rather than just a teammate no one cares about. It’s cool, a very new experience, something he’s never had before, but it makes him feel, for the first time in his life, wanted. A different kind of wanted than when he’s on a team, because he knows his teammates want him there, but they don’t want his company which is what really matters at heart. 

Frank talks to them about anything, mostly hockey, they progress into music, Frank finds out that Gerard and Mikey were in a band once, and from the constant assurance from literally everyone at the table, apparently, Gerard has the voice of an angel, but Frank is a skeptic by nature. He also learns that Pete apparently once fainted at a Beyoncé concert.

Somehow, god knows how, Gerard starts talking about comic books, and Frank, well Frank gets a little bit gayer during the fifteen-minute monologue. To be fair, it’s closer to twenty minutes. 

“But like, anyway, that’s why, if I were a superhero, I’d most want to be Nightcrawler,” Gerard says, after honestly just a solid five minutes of listing the positives and negatives of having every super power imaginable, only after going on and on about some comic Frank’s never even heard of called Doom Patrol. Frank’s somewhat of a classicalist, X-Men all the way, and depending on how hot the actor who plays him is, he can dig Batman. 

Gerard talks with every part of his body, except, oddly enough, his mouth. He talks with his hands, with his shoulders, with his face, with his eyes, but when it comes to actually forming words, all of his words only come out of one very small corner of his mouth. He’s got a world of expressions and gestures to accompany them, though, and the sound of his voice, Frank decides he likes. Well, more than likes, but he’s trying to restrain himself.

Frank stops himself there, because part of the reason for why he often avoids hanging out with people like this is because then he’ll get close to people, and Frank has a habit of falling in love with strangers on a regular basis. So, having friends is a dangerous game to play, because that opens up the possibility that he’s going to get a crush on someone he actually _knows_ and that would seriously fuck everything up.

“I’d want to be… Aquaman,” Pete says, before everyone starts laughing at him. He tries to assure them that he was just kidding, but they’re too busy making fun of him for him to get the chance.

“I’d want to be Rogue,” Mikey says. “Because that way, I’m like every other superhero ever combined into one.”

“Yeah, but only if you make a habit of fondling people,” Ray says. 

“I don’t see how that’s a problem.”

“You wouldn’t,” Gerard rolls his eyes. Frank can’t help looking at all of the guys, it’s not just Gerard who he’s crushing on. If he’s honest, he’s kind of attracted to all of them. Travie the most probably, but Travie doesn’t talk as much as Gerard so it’s harder for him to fall in love with his personality.

“I’d be Magneto, man,” Travie says, “can’t beat that shit. Got a metal implant in your arm? Bam, now I have control of your arm.”

“Oh no, a whole arm! What’s next, you going to take control of my teeth fillings?” Gerard asks. 

“No, but I can still strangle you with a pipe if you piss me off,” Travie replies. 

“Touché,” Gerard says, “but, oh wait? What’s that? I can literally just teleport away from your strangulation. I can just teleport and drop an anvil over your head.”

“Okay, excuse me, these are superheroes, not Hanna Barbera cartoons.”

Frank’s not gonna lie, he’s a little turned on.

“It would still work!” Gerard says. “I’ll knock you out, and then you can’t hurt me, I’m awesome.”

“Ah yes, but you both pale before my ability to talk to fish,” Pete says, and nothing says boner kill like Aquaman. 

“Pete, sometimes I wonder how you manage to get out of bed every morning without step-by-step instructions,” Mikey says to him.

“My life is not an Ikea catalog,” Pete replies. Pete’s brain, from what Frank is able to tell, starts and ends at the ice. It’s not that he’s an idiot, he seems smart if Frank’s being honest, it’s just that, he has absolutely no idea how to express that. Pete could be a fucking genius, he could be the smartest man in the world, but he would have absolutely no way of showing other people that. He’s simply cursed to look like an idiot. 

“Well, on that note,” Gerard says, looking at his watch, “I have to get to bed.”

Frank has not yet determined how old Gerard actually is. It’s still puzzling him. He looks old enough to have graduated college, and if that’s the case, then his job as an assistant coach makes more sense than if he were a student. But he also looks like he could be a year or two older than Frank, and still a student. Frank can’t seem to determine which is the case. He’s sure that whatever the situation is, it’s not going to change the fact that Frank is insanely into him. Quite oppositely, learning that Travie supports the Rangers, that’s practically a deal breaker.

“Whatever, old man,” Mikey says, taunting him as he stands up.

“Actually, me too,” Ray says, “I have an early class tomorrow.”

“I’ll go too then,” Frank says, with a shrug. He wants to talk to Ray a little while longer, and this is an opportune time to do so. 

At that, the rest of them all decide to start heading back to their dorms, or wherever the hell it is that Gerard is going, since Frank still hasn’t cracked that case. 

Frank and Ray are in the middle of talking about new wave bands when Gerard stops, seemingly remembering something, and he turns back to look at Frank. 

“Listen, Frank,” Gerard says, back tracking to Frank and Ray as they exit the coffee shop. Frank looks at him, refuses to make eye contact, because that’s a well Frank does not need to be falling into right now. He sees Gerard holding something out for him to take. Frank takes it, and looks at it to see that it’s a key.

“Coach asked me to give you that,” Gerard says, “she wants you to do some extra practicing because you’re starting late in the season. I’ll leave you some of our notes when I get the chance, but anyway, feel free to use the rink whenever you need it. As long as someone else isn’t using it, that is.”

“Oh,” Frank nods, grinning like an idiot. “Cool, thanks.” In a non-maniacal way, he feels very powerful holding this key. Maybe a little maniacal. 

“Yeah,” Gerard nods, “hope the extra time helps.” Gerard then walks off, catching up to his brother and putting an arm around his shoulder, before Mikey is shrugging it off hastily. Frank smiles a bit, jealous for lack of a better word. He’s always wanted a brother, one of those things you don’t know you’re missing out on until you see what other people have.

Ray gestures for Frank to keep on walking, so he does, stuffing the key in his pocket.

“Man, I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, dude,” Ray says.

“What do you mean?”

“Well how bad were you today to need extra practice time?” Ray says, and Frank turns to him curiously to see that he’s joking. Frank shrugs, because he’s not used to people joking around him. Insult based humor is something he’s going to have to get used to. 

“It’s cool though,” Frank says, “like I have free reign of the rink.”

“Sure dude,” Ray says, “but you’re not gonna have time for a life outside of hockey if you train that much.”

“Who says there’s such a thing as life outside of hockey?” Frank questions, and Ray laughs, even though Frank hadn’t meant it as a joke. He laughs along with Ray though, because evidently, Frank is a weirdo. 

“Gerard must really like you to give you that, dude,” Ray says, and Frank feels his heart stutter a little bit at that. Ray means platonically, of course he does. He means that Gerard must think he’s a good player. He was giving Frank a hard time about it, but that’s how coaches deal with good players a lot of the time, it’s part of a motivational tactic to get the best out of them. It’s when they’re really nice to you that you gotta watch out. 

“Really?” Frank asks.

“Yeah,” Ray nods. “Coach would probably give a key to anyone who asked, but Gerard’s really picky about that. It’s like he sees the rink as his second home. He’s a little weird like that.”

“Did he used to play?” Frank asks.

“He did, he was pretty good,” Ray replies, “but he just up and quit by junior year. I don’t really know why, but he did. Then he cozied it up to Coach for the assistant coaching gig, like she’d have said no with his hockey centric brain.”

“So, he’s out of school?” Frank asks. 

“Graduated last year,” Ray nods as a confirmation. “He’s the real motivator out on the ice. Coach is good at maneuvering, and game plans, the technical stuff, you know, but she’s super passive if you hadn’t noticed. Gerard is an asshole in the rink, but he means well, and if you start to show him what he wants then he doesn’t call you out as much. But like, don’t get me wrong, he still yells at us no matter what.”

“Every team needs someone to yell at them when they’re doing things wrong,” Frank says. 

“You buy into all that tough love stuff, huh?” Ray laughs, and he holds the door open for Frank when they reach their building. 

“When it comes to sports, there’s no way around it,” Frank shrugs.

“You have a single-track mind.”

“What do you mean?”

“Life isn’t just about hockey,” Ray replies.

“I never said it was,” Frank replies. “Life is about skating.”

“Skating, hockey, what’s the difference?” Ray asks.

“You don’t need a hockey stick to skate.”

“You’re not talking about that stupid ass figure skating, are you?” Ray asks, and Frank sighs. He’d expected as much. All hockey players are the same. They hate figure skating. They detest it. The only thing hockey players dislike more than gay dudes are figure skaters. If you’re a figure skating gay dude, then you are in for a harsh wake up call, because hockey players do not stand for that shit at all.

Frank’s used to it though. He’s lived with this his entire life. They’re two passion that aren’t allowed to intertwine. It’s unfortunate that they’re the only two passions Frank actually has.

“’Course not dude,” Frank says, with a fake laugh, “figure skating is stupid.”

“Damn right,” Ray says, and they come to their dorm, and Frank waits as he opens it for them. “Figure skating is an utter disgrace as a sport. It makes hockey almost laughable, since there are these stupid people with their frilly ass dresses doing all that dumbass twirling and shit. It just boils my blood, man, they cast a dark cloud over hockey.”

“Yeah, totally,” Frank says, not believing the words he says. 

For all of his life, figure skating and hockey, have both, in turn, been dark clouds over the other. For figure skaters, to play hockey is brutish, animalistic, juvenile. For hockey players, figure skating is wimpy, easy, frilly, girly. As someone who’s played both Frank can confirm time and time again that figure skating is by far more difficult than hockey, but that’s not how the world sees it. He can also confirm that there is no thrill like the feeling of playing on a hockey team. 

Frank doesn’t say anything more, he just resigns himself to sit at the desk under his bed, which he’s sure he’s never going to get used to. He may be short, but even he isn’t short enough not to hit his head on the bed frame above him when he tries to sit down. Ray doesn’t mean to, but he laughs at him as Frank rubs at the spot on his head, frowning. 

Frank makes a face at him, but Ray just shrugs in response, like it’s the end of a conversation. For the most part, it is. Ray has classes tomorrow, which Frank does not, so Ray falls asleep not long after they arrive back in the room, leaving Frank to stare at the ceiling only a few feet above him in his stupid lofted bed. 

He dwells on a lot of different things in this time he has to spend left with his own thoughts. He thinks about how nice the ice had felt beneath him today, how even though this place is a bit of a shithole, it’s also kind of charming. It’s also got a feel to it, a sort of _click_ , like it makes more sense than Frank’s other school. Here, even though so far, he’s been terrified of his new surroundings and less than warmly welcomed by a majority of the team, it still seems more like a place that he can call home than anywhere else. 

Frank also thinks about how he’s still going to have to keep his secrets. He didn’t think he wouldn’t, actually he was sure he would, but part of him allowed himself to hope that maybe he’d shed those secrets in a new place. He’s never going to get that chance, he knows it, but he allowed himself to dream. 

Frank’s probably always going to be closeted, he’s probably going to die that way. He has every intention of moving onto the NHL when he’s out of school, and if he can’t tell anyone in college with only the tiniest of spotlights, then he surely can’t tell with a large one. This is his fate, and it’s his own fault because it’s the path he’s chosen. Maybe when Frank retires, maybe then. 

Frank allows himself to imagine though, what would it be like if he could be free from societies stigma? What would Frank do if he had the opportunity to actually be with someone? Who would he even want? 

Frank thinks about the guys he met today. Pete was a little mouthy, didn’t seem to shut up, which is fine unless you consider putting up with that all the time. Mikey was kind of aloof, kind of ditzy almost, not bad, nothing wrong with him, just not Frank’s type. Ray’s off the table completely, Frank can’t even begin to consider being attracted to his own roommate. Travie was a viable option. Pretty, somehow angelic, a little quiet, but opinionated once you get him to start talking. Definitely an option, were Frank given the opportunity. 

Then there’s Gerard. Gerard’s the black sheep of the bunch. Frank can’t decide how he feels about the guy, he likes his face but that’s a very small detail. He likes _all_ the guys faces, there’s more to them than that though. 

Gerard’s kind of out there. He’s very much himself, which Frank would consider to be one of the strongest things about a personality. If you’re going to be yourself, you should own it. Gerard’s confident in who he is as a person. He’s a little brief though, a little snippy. But he’s also kind of adorable, he’s a giant nerd who’s somehow weaseled his way onto a hockey team. When he’d gotten started, and then couldn’t stop, talking about comics, it was like hearing a poet describe the love of their life. Something about hearing other people’s passions has always fascinated Frank, he could stop and listen for hours to someone who tells him about something they absolutely adore, and he’d never get bored. 

Maybe it’s because he’s an assistant coach, but Gerard’s also a little bossy. Frank doesn’t mind that so much in moderation, but all the time? Frank’s somewhat passive, he always has been, Gerard is the opposite. 

After careful consideration, Frank decides that, even though it’s never going to happen, Gerard probably wouldn’t be at the top of his list of potential boyfriends. He’s just a little too different from Frank. He’s not ruled out completely, though. There’s many more people to meet though, and Frank isn’t a settler. 

Alas, this is all make-believe. Frank’s never going to get a chance like that, and he knows it. But it’s fun to pretend, if only for a little while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays to everyone!


	4. Rabbit Hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the topic of figure skating.

Frank wakes early, and he peaks over at the clock next to him to see that it’s so early that you can hardly even classify it as such. It’s late. But Frank never gets back to sleep once he’s woken up, so he decides it doesn’t matter. Four in the morning or not, he’s awake, and he’s likely going to stay that way. He still has at least one more day of settling in before classes are going to start for him, so he decides it doesn’t matter. He’s not going to try to torment himself with trying to get back to sleep.

Frank pulls himself out of bed and looks over at Ray. He contemplates for a moment, before deciding precisely what to do.

Frank pulls on some sweats, he doesn’t care too much about putting up appearances when he’s going out at this time of day. Hardly anyone will even see him. Frank hurries himself getting his stuff on, and then he grabs his gym bag, hastily making his way over to the skating rink.

It’s so early that the sun isn’t up yet, and it probably won’t be for another hour. Classes aren’t going to start up with any sort of frequency for another three or four, so Frank has a lot of time to be by himself. He can’t risk anyone catching him, especially not his teammates. 

Frank had expected he’d have to wait ages just to get this chance, if he ever got a chance. He didn’t have a single chance at Boston, so he’s out of practice, but he craves the feeling of the ice in an entirely different way than hockey.

The key that Frank was presented with gives him a golden opportunity. Between the hours of about midnight to six in the morning, Frank has full reign of the rink. He’s got it all to himself. No one is likely to show up between those hours. This school may turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to him.

Frank enters the building, the key in his hand feeling like a million dollars as he opens the door easily, and then locks it again behind him. He’s thankful that there’s only windows at the entrance, and not all around the sides, so no one will be able to look in.

Frank hurries putting on his skates, shoves the rest of his stuff into his locker, and then it’s only a matter of moments before he’s on the ice. It’s not even been half a day since he was on the ice, but with these skates on, it’s like a completely different beast altogether. It’s been more like three months. It’s been far too long, and not just long because Frank feels out of place off the ice for ten minutes, it’s been centuries since he last got this chance.

Frank first makes a few laps around the rink, just to give his feet the chance to reacquaint themselves with the ice, but it feels so different with these skates. He comes to a clean, flawless stop that would be impossible in his other skates. He forgot just how much he loves having a toe pick, but honestly, the sheer weight and clunk of a hockey skate verges on impractical sometimes.

With these skates, it’s like he’s gliding, he moves with grace and balance. With hockey skates, it’s all about speed, and just about getting where you need to go, no consideration for actual practicality. 

Frank makes his way to center ice, ready to feel the air on his skin the way he craves it. He spends another ten to fifteen minutes getting used to what is practically second nature to him, which still feels a little rusty. Finally, he feels confident enough and he gears up for his first jump in months.

It’s only a double axel, nothing to write home about, but he lands on the ice cleanly, with an arm raised even, so he’s not going to feel bad about it. He’d almost forgotten the sound of a skate hitting ice, it’s the most satisfying clack of all time, it’s honestly music to Frank’s ears. He’d say it’s his favorite sound in the entire world. The sound of a skate hitting ice after a perfect jump, there’s nothing comparable to it. It’s like smelling cookies baking, it’s universally satisfying. 

Frank is too eager to go for another jump, he’s too eager to get back to his roots, so he makes another jump, another double which he overrates on, and it trips him up, almost sending him sprawling to the ground, but he catches himself, though a little dizzy.

He doesn’t let it get to him down though, and Frank just keeps going for jumps, going for spins, going for anything that his body decides it wants, because when he’s on the ice he doesn’t even need to think, his body just takes over. His brain doesn’t know what would look good, what would feel graceful, but his body knows it all. 

Frank has never competed in any sort of figure skating competition, because for the past ten years or so, it’s been a secret. He hasn’t been able or allowed to tell anybody. There’s a cutoff age for when boys are allowed to do ‘girly’ things and that age is usually found at nine years old. Frank hasn’t been able to tell anyone since, not anyone. His mom would have to drive them out to the skating rink three towns over just for him to get a chance to practice, because he knew full well that he’d get eaten alive if kids knew. 

Frank loves hockey, he really does, he loves it with all of his heart, and if he had to stop he’d be devastated, beyond devastated, he’d probably never be able to look himself in the mirror again. But at the same time, Frank loves figure skating. He loves it in an entirely different way. They’re two entirely different things that happen to be similar enough that you’re not allowed to do both. It’s just not okay for a hockey player to figure skate. It’s an unwritten rule, but one that’s also very clear.

Frank would give anything to be in the NHL, to compete among his idols. What he wouldn’t give to share the ice with Ovechkin. But he also wants the world to recognize that he’s a damn good fucking figure skater. He’s not the best, not even kind of, but he’s still good. Yet he doesn’t have the opportunity, nor will he ever have the opportunity, to show _anyone_ that. The only people who know are the people who grew up around him, but apart from his own mother, nobody even knows that he still does. He pretended to give it up a long time ago. 

Yet, through it all, for all the torment that this secret has put him through, he’d still give anything to just compete one time. Just once. 

He knows it’s probably too late for him though, competitive skaters start competing at a far younger age than Frank, he’s well past the age where it’s acceptable to just jump into competition, when he’s never competed in anyway at all before. But if he could show people what he’s made of, people might be able to look past his inexperience, because Frank never half asses anything. If he’s not putting in one hundred and ten percent, then he won’t accept recognition or praise for anything. If he doesn’t deserve to even be recognized, then he certainly doesn’t deserve accolade. So, when he skates, he puts his all into it. He longs to show that to the world.

It’s a conundrum that keeps him awake at night, that haunts his every waking step. He has a whole secret identity just waiting to be unleashed but he can’t let it lose. He’ll never get to.

He still wants to compete. He doesn’t care if he’d win, he honestly doesn’t think he could care less about winning, or placing at all for that matter. But to just be recognized by more than one person as a figure skater. For people to know, and to actually get to look at the accomplishments he’s made, all of which by himself, with no one’s help or guidance. Just for people to know and experience what he spends a large portion of his life putting his every effort into, which no one ever gets to actually see.

Because, at the end of the day, everyone will get to see him play hockey, they’ll get to see him make a goal, get to see him make a difference on a team that needs him, but no one gets to see him land a jump. No one gets to see the routines he’s spent years and years and years building up, slaving over, putting his heart and soul into, because they always go unnoticed. He’ll spend over five years on a program that will ultimately never be seen. It’s like a poet not being able to share their poetry. He’s an artist who doesn’t get to show the world his art. 

Because sadly, no one would understand.

When Frank was in seventh grade, there was a local boy who won his sectional figure skating competition, an enormously big deal, and for it to happen to someone who lived nearby was the talk of the town for weeks on end. This kid was gonna be huge, there were rumors bubbling up around him that he’d be the next _big deal_ , that he’d compete on the US team during the next Olympics. He didn’t even really live that near to Frank, their only similarity was that they lived in the same state, but it was close enough that Frank _idolized_ him. Frank wanted to be just like him. 

That boy had been a junior in high school, and because of his figure skating, he was bullied, despite how far he prospered in the sport. It was proof that no matter how big of a deal you are, boys aren’t allowed to figure skate. Boys aren’t allowed to do feminine things, it doesn’t matter how good they are, it’s just not allowed.

That boy never went on to the US figure skating team. He killed himself two months after winning his gold title, before he ever even got to compete in nationals. 

So, Frank refuses to let his secret get out. He can’t afford to. Frank’s hockey career is too promising, there’s so much that he has to give to this sport, and he cannot allow himself to blow that with what can only be considered a hobby at this point. 

All figure skating can ever be is a hobby, a private one at that. Like scrapbooking, or building model cars, it’s something you only share with a few people, never the world. 

Frank’s practice loses its flare not long after he remembers all the things that pull him down. He feels like a bird with a broken wing. He wants to spread his wings to fly, but he can’t. The suppression bleeds into his performance, and eventually, he can’t even land anymore jumps, and it’s not due to exhaustion. Frank just can’t stop beating himself up over how disastrous this secret could be to his life, and it effects his skating so much so that he can’t even rationalize practicing anymore.

Frank gets off the ice at about seven, and he knows that he is definitely pushing the limits on maintaining his privacy. Someone could easily come in here for an early morning practice, though it being a Wednesday definitely decreases that chance, but he definitely can’t risk skating any longer. 

He feels kind of empty when he does get off the rink, a feeling that he has every now and again when he remembers what’s at risk. You’d think Frank was hiding a secret like he killed someone, or he’s addicted to cocaine, not something that an outsider would view as tiny, like figure skating. The truth is that it’s not tiny, not for a hockey player. It’s a big deal. It’s not just an empire state building sized issue, it’s a whole city of skyscrapers. 

Frank changes into less grungy clothes, jeans and a t-shirt, putting his sweats and skates into his bag, and then frowning at the hockey skates he’d put in his locker yesterday. He can’t risk leaving these skates in his locker, because everyone would know the difference. His secret wouldn’t remain that way for more than a day. 

Frank sits on a bench in the locker room, just sort of thinking, for what feels like a really long time but is actually just five minutes. He’s conflicted, because he would absolutely love to just give up figure skating and put everything into hockey, but he literally cannot do that. His own body won’t allow him, Frank physically craves the ice, it’s like air. 

He hurries up when he hears the sound of someone moving about outside, probably getting ready for an early morning practice, just not as early morning as Frank had. He’s tempted to get on his hockey skates and get some actually useful training done, but his mood is kind of wonky right now, he feels like he just needs to lie down for a little while before he’ll be able to do anything, so he decides that he’ll come back later if he really needs to practice some more. 

Frank makes his way out of the locker room, and he sees Gerard standing there, messing with the front door to unlock it. Gerard’s presence surprises Frank, making him stop right where he stands in the doorway from the locker room. He doesn’t know if he wants to have to engage in an actual conversation with the guy, because Frank generally likes to avoid one-on-ones with people, but he supposes that he is trying this new thing where he’s actually social, and running past Gerard probably won’t be an effective technique to achieve this goal. 

Frank makes his way slowly over to the exit, as Gerard unlocks the doors. The skating rink officially opens at about eight, so there’s still about an hour or so before the doors need to be unlocked, but Frank chooses not to question it. 

Gerard turns to him when he hears Frank walking down the hall, and he looks unsurprised to see him there.

“Well I guess giving you that key is going to come in handy, huh?” Gerard says when he unlocks the last door, of which there’s a total of four.

“Yeah,” Frank says sheepishly. 

“Hope you’re not too tired out for practice tonight?” Gerard asks, and Frank shakes his head. He’s never too tired, really, not for skating anyway. Their training schedule is rather intensive, with a practice every day except Sunday, three hours each, except for Saturday which is five hours. Frank expects he’s going to be dead on his feet by week two, but it’ll be worth it. 

“Never,” Frank says, shaking his head.

“Well good,” Gerard says, smiling. “Oh, actually, while I’m thinking about it, I should get you that copy of our game plan.”

Frank nods, and then Gerard gestures for him to follow behind him. Frank does so, and he walks in pace behind Gerard, down the hallway that leads to the locker room, and a little further past which leads to some offices. There’s an office that says ‘Coach’ on the door which Gerard unlocks and then leads him into. 

Once inside, Frank sees another door which leads into the locker room, but Gerard goes to the desk and starts looking through a stack of papers, searching for what he’s looking for, which is likely to take a few minutes considering the mess on the desk.

The office itself is rather barren, no trophies to speak of, but there are dozens of photos all over the walls with highlights from games over the years. Coach has been at this school for what appears to be about ten years, going by the team photos that date back to 2004. There’s two desks in the office, one smaller than the other and shoved into the corner. It’s Gerard’s desk surely, and the other slightly larger one with the team photos behind it is Coach’s. Gerard’s desk has newspaper articles behind it, and Frank, unable to help himself, looks at them to read the headlines of what Gerard has deemed worthy of saving.

The articles are extremely old, dated almost forty years ago, with headlines that say things such as ‘Way Becomes Unlikely MVP,’ ‘Is There a Championship Game in Armstrong’s Future?’ ‘From Rags to Riches, a History of the Green Knights,’ and the highlight of the collection which says ‘Armstrong University Dominates D-I With First Championship Win.’ Frank studies the articles more closely, and he realizes that they chronicle a four-year period, the very first and last time this school ever won a major tournament.

“You’re a legacy,” Frank says, as a fact rather than as a question.

“What?” Gerard asks, and then seems to understand what Frank’s saying. “Oh, right, yeah.”

“Your dad was on the team that won the championship?” Frank asks, turning to look at him, suddenly understanding why it is that Gerard and for that matter, Mikey, are both at this school. It’s not a very good school for hockey, though their other sports teams tell a different story, but it doesn’t make sense as a school for a hockey family. Why would a family of hockey players go here when there are better schools to play for? But when you factor this revelation in, it starts to make a lot of sense.

“He was,” Gerard nods, “hell, he was the reason they won it.”

“So, that’s why you and Mikey went here,” Frank says. 

Gerard nods, “the dream was to do our father proud by winning another championship for this place.”

“So, why’d you quit?” Frank asks, remembering what Ray had said. 

Gerard shrugs, “because I realized that I was fighting a losing battle.”

Frank shakes his head, “bullshit.”

“What?”

“That’s crap,” Frank replies, “you wouldn’t give up on a team like that if you were raised on your own father’s accomplishments. And why would you return to coach this team if it was a lost cause?” 

Gerard sighs, and then has what can almost be construed as a smile on his face when he replies, “alright, fair enough. Mostly, I lost faith in myself, and I started to push myself so much that the sport was close to killing me. I gave it up for my own good. Hockey stopped being about the love of the sport, and it became about proving a point, which isn’t what it should be about. I retuned as a coach because I still love this team, and this school, with all my heart, I just couldn’t play for it anymore and retain my own sanity.”

Frank looks at Gerard, walking over to him, Gerard still looking through the mess of papers on Coach’s desk. He’s starting to warm up to this boy pretty fast, which is unusual for Frank, as usually he’s as cold as the ice he skates on when it comes to new people. Something about Gerard though reminds him so very much of himself. Gerard has something to prove to the world which Frank identifies with. Frank is nothing if not trying to prove his worth. 

“Ah, here we are,” Gerard says, finding the papers he’s looking for, stapled together into what looks like one War and Peace sized booklet. 

“Oh, uh thanks,” Frank says, taking the papers from him, and skimming through the pages quickly. 

“Study it like the bible,” Gerard says, and Frank nods. He hadn’t noticed before, but Gerard is cleaner than he had been yesterday, like he’s trying to impress someone. His hair looks like it actually got washed, which must be a rarity for this man, and his clothes, while still too big for him, look a little less worn and faded. He also must have shaved because he doesn’t have that awful looking neckbeard encroaching on his pale skin. 

Frank wonders who he’s trying to impress, or if he’s just reading too much into it. Maybe Frank just caught him on a bad day yesterday. That’s probably it, he supposes, Gerard just decided to prim himself up for no ulterior motive other than because he felt like it.

“Do you have a class you need to get to?” Gerard asks, looking down at his watch as if he’d only just realized the time.

“No,” Frank shakes his head, “I don’t have a schedule yet, it’s still being finalized.”

“Oh, right, okay,” Gerard nods, looking entirely too interested in this information. “Well in that case, do you, uh, do you want to go get breakfast with me? So, that we can talk more about the team, of course.”

Frank feels slightly winded at the offer, probably because no one has ever asked him anything of the sort in his entire life. He turns a ghostly pale, in contrast to the pink that overtakes Gerard’s cheeks.

“Um, sure, yeah,” Frank says, nodding, not knowing how to feel. If this were Frank’s imagination, then this would be a date, but since it is not his imagination, Frank’s sure he’s reading too much into it. Reality never aligns with Frank’s own dreams, so this is just two guys going out for breakfast to discuss hockey. Nothing more than that. Frank is just delusional because Gerard is pretty. Frank tells himself to be calm about it, because this is how he falls down a rabbit hole, by allowing himself to think things that are not only idiotic, but impossible. It’s just a casual breakfast, and Frank’s fucking delusional.

Gerard is hoping for something quite the opposite of casual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment for a telepathic hug! Also, have happy new year!


	5. Crushcrushcrush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the tin.

Frank may have been wrong before when he had thought Gerard wasn’t on the list of potential boyfriends. He may have been so completely wrong that it’s almost laughable.

Frank might be putty in Gerard’s hands already, and it’s only been a day. 

Frank falls in love with everybody, it’s like his _thing_. He falls in love with fictional characters, he falls in love with actors, he falls in love with classmates, he falls in love with strangers. To be fair, he’s a sexually repressed hormonal teenager at his peak, so it’s not a surprise that he’s so willing to fall in love with people, but there are consequences to it.

Gerard takes him to a diner off campus, a ten or so minute walk from the rink, and Gerard starts talking about his dad, and how he had raised himself and Mikey on hockey like it was second nature, something as normal as going to school, or brushing your teeth. 

“For as long as I can remember, I’ve played hockey. I was on a hockey team before I even started school,” he says. “And like, every other week, we’d go to a hockey game. It was just like a family tradition, you know? We’d share fries, doughnuts, I’d go to school the next say too tired to concentrate on anything, and then I’d go home and we’d watch more.”

“My mom was never all that into hockey,” Frank says. “It took me years to teach her the rules. But she’d come to every game anyway, root me on even if she didn’t know what was going on.”

“My mom was my biggest fan,” Gerard says, “oh man, wait till your first game and you hear her screaming for Mikey.”

“Are you going to let me play during the first game?” Frank asks. The season technically started only last week, and the team has already played, and lost, their first game. Their second game is the day after tomorrow, which is far too close, and Frank is definitely not prepared for that.

The hockey season starts in October and goes through to March. An assortment of finals are scattered across March, with the final, the NCAA championship, taking place in April. Games are traditionally played on Friday’s or Saturday’s, sometimes back to back, and sometimes only one per week. There are up to 34 games in a season, excluding tournaments, and these tend to be split in half between away and home games. In a season, a team usually plays every team in the division twice, but this isn’t always the case.

The Green Knights have a game on Friday, a home game, which is at their own rink, and the week after that they’ll be in Wisconsin. The season gets hectic pretty early on, and that’s without accounting for school. 

“Definitely not,” Gerard says, shaking his head, “I’m not going to put you on the ice until you’re part of the team. I mean, like a real, cohesive, part of the team. You probably won’t play until next week, or the week after that.”

“I understand,” Frank says, nodding, though he’s not happy about it. He’ll soon be one of the shining stars of the team, but even if he is a good player, he isn’t a part of the team yet, because he hasn’t practiced with them enough. He needs to understand his team members minds in and out, because being good at hockey only goes so far if you’re not on the same wavelength as your teammates.

“I hope you shape up pretty quick though,” Gerard says, “the team needs you. They won’t admit it your face, but they do.”

“I know,” Frank says, “I really hope I’m able to help the team.”

“It’s the dawn of a new era, if you ask me,” Gerard says, “Pete’s the new captain, you’re new to the team. Things are changing quite quickly, but I think it’ll be a good change. I think you’ll do us proud.”

“I hope to,” Frank says, “hockey is why I’m here. It’s what I intend to prove.”

“What do you plan to do _after_ hockey?” Gerard asks, seemingly out of nowhere.

“Uh, well, ideally I’ll be a millionaire by then, so probably just retire with a house full of dogs.”

“A millionaire?”

“NHL pays really good,” Frank shrugs.

“Oh, so after hockey, you plan to do… hockey.”

“Yeah,” Frank says, nodding, because that’s pretty much the gist of it.

“And they say college kids have no direction,” Gerard sighs. 

“Well, what do you plan to do?” Frank asks. “You’re already out of school, and yet you haven’t even really left. So like, who’s the one with no direction?”

“Relax, I’m kidding,” Gerard says, “I’m well aware of the fact that I don’t know where I’m going in life. It eats me up at night, but let’s not get into that right now.” He says it with something like laughter on his face, but Frank has a bit of a panic attack just thinking about it. He does not want to think about what comes after hockey, or what’ll happen if he doesn’t end up in the NHL. He hasn’t considered it. It’s just always been a goal. Not quite a certainty, so much as the only option he’s ever given himself. 

“But you don’t want to be an assistant coach forever,” Frank says.

“No, well, the next rung would be… coach.”

“Oh, very funny,” Frank says with the hint of a snarl, as he rolls his eyes. “What did you even go to school for though?”

“I got a degree in cartoons,” Gerard says, and when Frank wrinkles his eyes in skepticism, Gerard just shrugs. “No, actually. That’s actually what I have a degree in.”

“So, what, did you just sit inside and watch Spongebob all day?”

“No, cartooning and illustrations, you blockhead. Like drawing cartoons.”

“Oh,” Frank says, nodding, “see I don’t know why that didn’t occur to me.”

“You’re an idiot,” Gerard shakes his head. “After hockey, if I ever decide to stop, that is, I’ll try to do something like that. Do animation or comics or something.”

“I could see you as a comic book writer,” Frank says, and Gerard, though for the life of him he doesn’t know why, blushes. Frank looks at him with fascination as his ears and then the sides of his face turn scarlet, and he tries to figure out what he said that could cause that.

“You think so?” Gerard asks.

“I’ve never met anyone as into comics as you,” Frank says, “if you can’t create comics, then who the fuck can?”

“Thanks,” Gerard says, not able to look back up at Frank for a good couple of minutes. People don’t tend to believe in Gerard. He’s always been second best, at everything. Everything he does is second rate, idiotic, lesser than what others have done. Even Mikey’s a better hockey player than he is. There’s always been someone who has been better than him at everything he has ever been good at. 

Drawing is the only thing that he’s ever been better than other people at, the one thing that he does better than everyone around him. So, when he pursued it at school, he was excited to be the best. Then everyone told him it wasn’t a viable career option and that he should find a better life’s ambition. Scrap the old one because it’s just not probable enough. Like you can just _do_ that. Just throw away your dreams because it’s convenient.

Something about Frank makes his words feel more important than other peoples, it’s probably just because Frank’s the only person to validate his feelings. The only person to actually encourage Gerard. It’s refreshing, having a change in climate. Someone who actually believes in him is something Gerard is not used to. 

The truth is, Gerard doesn’t want to do hockey forever. That’s not exactly true, though. He does want to in some way always be involved with hockey, whether as a fulltime coach or an assistant coach, but he wants to do more. He wants to write a comic book, or create a TV cartoon, or write a fucking children’s novel, something, _anything_ , that allows him to bring his creativity to the table. 

Maybe if he were to date someone who plays hockey he could have the best of both worlds. Possibly a member of the NHL…

“Do you have a girlfriend, Frank?” Gerard asks, unable to help himself. The question is out of nowhere, though, making Frank splutter slightly and look at Gerard quizzically.

“Do I what?”

“Have a girlfriend?” Gerard asks.

“Why…?” Frank starts to ask Gerard why he wants to know and then just shrugs and replies, “no, I d-don’t.”

“Interesting.”

“Do you?” Frank asks.

“No,” Gerard says, shaking his head, his answer almost immediate.

Frank has a flash of puzzlement, with his brain conjuring up the radical idea that this is flirting. This is Gerard flirting. This is him trying to see if he has a shot with Frank.

Then, Frank lets reality come back to him and he rolls his eyes at himself, because of the idiocy of his own imagination. Of course this isn’t flirting, Gerard’s as straight as every other hockey player. Hockey players aren’t gay, not even technically retired hockey players who are now coaches. And even if Gerard were gay, he would have no interest in Frank, who’s about four years younger than him, and boring as fuck. He’s probably in the same league as Gerard, but if Gerard were to get a haircut and some nicer clothes he probably wouldn’t be. 

Gerard’s just being nice. He’s just trying to learn more about Frank, that’s all. That’s why he asked Frank to breakfast, and wants to know if he’s dating someone. Because he’s being nice. Because he’s Frank’s coach and he should know most of the details about Frank’s life in order to make sure he is doing the best he can out there on the ice. It’s nothing more than that, obviously. Gerard’s just nice.

Gerard, of course, is flirting. 

“Okay,” Frank says, nodding, trying to brush it off. He had a lapse in judgement there where he actually allowed himself to believe that a boy might be into him, which is of course, impossible.

Their food comes following a few minutes of awkward silence, and Frank is thankful for the distraction. Gerard sees it as an opportunity to change the subject. 

“Do you really have no other plans beside hockey?” Gerard asks, looking at Frank cautiously, because he’s not sure if he freaked the boy out or something. 

Frank sighs, and doesn’t know what to say. If hockey doesn’t work out, he supposes he could always try figure skating. He’d have to quit hockey in order to do that though, which simply isn’t worth it. Frank loves hockey too much, and the difference between the two is that you can figure skate by yourself. You can’t play hockey by yourself though. He can’t be a figure skater who does hockey in his free time. It doesn’t work like that. It’s only the other way around. 

“I’ve never given myself permission to imagine any other paths,” Frank says. “Because hockey, skating, has always been the end goal, you know? Skating is what makes me feel like I have a life worth living.”

“Well then, fuck everything else, right?” Gerard says. “I’m not going to say that having a backup plan isn’t a good idea, but honestly, if you keep working hard, Frank, well then the skies the limit.”

“What?” Frank asks, because he’s definitely not used to people being supportive of that. People call him an idiot for not having a backup plan. His career advisor in high school literally hated Frank’s guts, because Frank vehemently refused to ever make any alternate plans. He just wouldn’t do it. He’d be told to name his top three ideal jobs, and he’d write hockey, hockey, hockey.

“Dude, if you’re going to go all in, then you do you, man. It helps that you’ve got the skill to back it up,” Gerard says.

“You’ve only seen me practice one time!” Frank says, because Gerard literally cannot be that quick to judge when he’s supposed to be a fucking coach.

“Well, I saw you beat the shit out of my brother three times,” Gerard says, and he decides to exclude the part where he’d googled Frank last night and watched clips of him playing on YouTube, because that would be creepy. Doesn’t mean he didn’t do it, but he doesn’t want to admit to it. 

“You should talk to my mom and try to convince her of that,” Frank says.

“Oh man, what does she want you to be, let me guess, lawyer?” Gerard asks.

“Engineer?” Frank says, with a shrug. “They get the best scholarships, or at least that’s what she told me.”

“Huh,” Gerard says, “yeah, no, you shouldn’t do that. You’d look awful in a hard hat.”

“I don’t think hard hats are really made to be fashionable,” Frank says, with a shrug. 

“Well, either way, don’t be an engineer. Unless you want to be, that is, but since you don’t, fuck that. And fuck lawyers, man.”

“Amen,” Frank says with a nod, biting into a piece of toast. 

Frank would very much like to say that half an hour later, after finishing breakfast, he has somehow managed to lull the feeling in his stomach into becoming dormant. That he has miraculously gotten over his _crush_ , or whatever you want to call it, on Gerard. 

Sadly, that is not the case. Frank manages to weasel his way away from Gerard after they pay their bill, by giving him a lousy excuse about touring campus, which of course, only inclines Gerard to offer to guide him, but Frank says that he’d rather do it himself, and without more word than that, he just runs away from the guy in a panic. Gerard is too confused to follow him, so Frank escapes him relatively unscathed, but not without embarrassment. 

Frank runs back to his room, which is empty because Ray is at class, and he hides under the blankets of his bed for a good ten minutes or so before getting his breathing down to a steady rate. With all the extra time that Frank has all to himself, he decides that what he really needs to do is to google the shit out of comic books so that he has fuel for talking to Gerard.

He doesn’t admit it to himself that that’s the reason for why he reads the entire Wikipedia page for Doom Patrol, but he can’t deny it to himself either. 

Ray comes back to the room at about eleven, making exasperated groaning sounds as he throws his backpack on the bed, with himself soon to follow.

“I feel you, man,” Frank says, looking down at him, which is honestly a first in his life, but having an elevated bed he supposes does have one advantage. 

“You ever just want to like, fucking, stick yourself in a microwave and just die there?” Ray says.

“Daily,” Frank says, nodding. 

“I literally hate calculus,” Ray replies.

“Oh, dude,” Frank says, making a face, “That’s rough.”

“It doesn’t help that I can barely add,” Ray says, pulling himself back up, with his hair everywhere, like the lion that he truly is. “What’s got you, so, uh… wigged out?”

Frank pulls himself up and tries to figure out what about him was radiating the internal mess he’s in. It’s probably the fact that he was staring at the ceiling and doing literally nothing else.

“Just, you know,” Frank says, he wants to say ‘boys’ but he refrains, and instead makes a groaning sound. 

“Um, yeah, that really… clears things up,” Ray says.

“Just, ugh,” Frank says with another groan, “I’ve been here a fucking day, and I’m already so unsure of everything.”

“What do you mean? Like you’re regretting coming here?”

“No, that’s not it,” Frank says, because it’s really not. He’s not really regretting being here, or at least, not yet anyway. He’s pretty chill about the hockey and the school, if not extremely stressed. He’s not uncertain about his decision to move here, what he’s uncertain about is Gerard, and just boys in general.

He’s uncertain about what relationships are like, what flirting is, how you’re supposed to know if a boy likes you, how to know if you like someone or if you’re just so used to people ignoring you that the first time someone pays you any mind you think you’re falling in love. Frank is just all muddled in the brain area, and it’s because of that stupid fucking hobo looking shit. 

“Oh, I get it,” Ray says, “it’s a girl.”

Frank sighs, because he supposes that Ray is close enough that he’ll settle with it.

“Am I that transparent?” Frank asks.

“Everyone is transparent when it comes to girls,” Ray says. “I’d love to do the whole, ‘what’s her name?’ and ‘where’d you meet’ game, but I have a class in twenty. I’ll quiz you on her later though.”

“Great,” Frank says, and he watches as Ray pulls out some textbooks and replaces them with different ones, before putting his backpack on, and making a groaning sound at the increased weight. 

“See ya,” Ray says, before waving at Frank, who waves back halfheartedly.

He goes back to his really invigorating staring contest with the ceiling, and starts to try to piece together this ‘girl’s’ personality who he’s now going to have to pretend he’s into. He settles on calling her Rachel, because when Frank was a small child, he had a crush on Jennifer Aniston. Now, he’s a little more into Joey.

Frank’s already in a pickle and he has been in this town for less than 24 hours. He’s already got a crush, on someone he _knows_ no less, and it’s worse because the guy is his fucking _coach_. Well, assistant coach to be exact, and he may only be like four years older than him, but he’s still an authority figure, kind of. Not really though, because his personality is really not very menacing. He’s like a slightly adultier adult.

And now Ray thinks he likes a girl, and he supposes that he can just copy and paste Gerard’s personality onto the fake girl he’s going to have to tell the guy about, but he might see through it. Any of the guys could see through it, they all know Gerard better than Frank does, and yet Frank is the one who’s in love with the guy.

Ray can’t know, of all the people in the world, Ray is the last person who can know. Ray is his roommate, for god’s sake, if the boy knew, he’d probably have Frank kicked out of the room, the school even, if can manage it. He doesn’t know Ray too well, but he’s a hockey player, it’s not hard to guess how he’d feel about that aspect of Frank’s personality. 

Liking anyone else, though, wouldn’t make his problems any easier, he can’t transpose how he feels onto Travie, it won’t do him any good. Travie and Gerard will both still be straight, and Frank will still be the gay hockey player. Well, he’s actually more likely to be the gay ex-hockey player after he’s kicked off the team. 

The fact of the matter is no one can know, and Frank can’t like Gerard. He just can’t. He can’t allow himself to. He has to stop these thoughts before they become any stronger or start to erode away his resilience. 

He’s sure that that his plan to not like Gerard is going to be impossible come practice tonight, and the next day, and the next day, and the day after that. It’s just great that the one guy he ends up crushing on is one of the ones he has to see every single day for possibly four years.

That’s sure to make things more difficult.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 2017! May this year bring you love, happiness, and band concerts!


	6. Mousetrap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TWO updates? In ONE weekend? The fuck?

It seems like practice that night can’t come soon enough. Frank is obsessing over the little memories he’s already made of Gerard, blossoming into different little daydreams. In once such daydream, he pictures himself and Gerard going to a movie, a movie based on a comic book. Doesn’t matter what it is, just that it’s about a superhero, and Frank watches Gerard’s face, illuminated only by the light on the large screen, as he’s so totally invested in whatever adventure Deadpool, or Spiderman, or Wolverine, or someone else find themselves in. It’s like watching a kid in a candy store, Gerard can’t help but to grin at comic book movies, because they bring to life the characters he cares too much about. It drives Frank wild, and he’s sure that if he were ever given an opportunity like that, he’d spoil the entire movie, by trying to make the fuck out with Gerard every other minute.

His thoughts always descend into more mature ones not long after they begin, which is why Frank has to keep shaking his head at himself, and think about literally anything else so as not to get himself _worked up_. 

Gerard’s torturing him. His mere existence is like a drug Frank can’t get enough of. He just needs another hit, and he can’t stop himself. He’s becoming addicted too fast, too readily, too easily.

Practice is almost a relief because of this. Yes, he has to be in closer proximity to Gerard, which definitely triggers some of those daydreams to start up again, but he’s sure that once he’s out on the ice, he’ll be able to put those to rest for a little while. He’ll be able to concentrate on the game rather than the fact that Gerard’s lips are like really nice, and probably super soft, and definitely the perfect shape.

He finds himself in the locker room, one of the first people to enter, only a few other guys in there, none of which Frank knows very well. He’s learning some of their names though, as some of them have names written on their lockers. 

There’s a vaguely attractive guy if you squint really hard, with a haircut that hasn’t been in style since Full House went off the air, whose name is supposedly Gavin. There’s a definitely swooned after boy who has a very kind face named Lamar. Other than that though, most of the rest of the team are either not here yet, or don’t have names on their lockers.

Morgan is one of the people to enter the locker room after Frank, and he gets nervous from his mere presence. Morgan gets his skin crawling, and he doesn’t know why, but there is something definitively creepy about him. He’s not a trustworthy person, and he’s not someone you want to be left alone with either. He looks like he could ruin your life, and Frank doesn’t want to find out if his intuition of the guy turns out to be true.

Eventually, the guys Frank knows start to pile in. First Travie, who gives Frank a quick greeting before he walks over to the other end of the locker room where his stuff is at. He’s a little too far to have a casual conversation with, which is why it’s a relief when Frank sees Pete and Mikey enter not long after him. 

Pete starts up in a conversation about a particularly exciting Blackhawks game last season that went into double overtime, which Frank is only slightly able to contribute to, not having followed them as closely. Frank’s not going to lie, he’s a little jealous of Pete having grown up in Chicago, who have the best team in the fucking world. He wishes the Devils were as good. They are not, however, being the diehard fan that he is, he can’t switch his allegiance just because they suck. 

He doesn’t even notice when Ray walks in, which is why he’s caught off guard when Ray starts talking to him about the one thing he had hoped he could avoid talking about. 

“Oh, Frank,” Ray says, with this little glimmer in his eye that Frank can’t quite describe.

“Yeah?” he asks.

“You like a girl!” Ray says, which peaks the interest of a few of the guys around them, which obviously makes his ears turn pink.

“Oh, uh, that,” Frank says, looking nervous. He had really hoped Ray might forget about it, or leave it alone completely. He especially hoped that Ray wouldn’t bring it up in a crowded room full of guys that he barely knows.

“Give me all the dirty details,” Ray says. “Except for the _dirty_ details, if you catch my drift.”

“None of those to speak of,” Frank says, with nervous laughter. “It’s really nothing. It’s nothing!”

“Well, but is she here, or back at your old school?” Ray asks.

“She’s, uh,” Frank starts, and he can’t decide which is better. If he says she’s here, then they might want to meet her, or see her, or might know if he’s lying or not. Bad things can happen if he says she’s here. “She’s at my old school.”

“Frank?” Gerard says, and Frank hadn’t realized that Gerard was standing there until just now. He’s got his clipboard in hand with a stack of papers an inch thick on top of it. “You told me you didn’t have a girlfriend.”

Gerard looks quite concerned with this information, and he’s probably just pissed that Frank lied to him. That would piss off Frank too, especially if he were a coach who was being lied to. He’s not jealous or anything, that’s an idiotic idea.

Gerard is jealous. Infuriatingly so. Frank had told him there was no one, and Gerard is a little bossy, it’s something he has always knows about himself. It comes in very handy as a coach, but it has its downsides. Namely, he gets jealous that an obviously straight boy has the nerve to not be attracted to him. 

“Well she’s not my girlfriend,” Frank says, quickly, not wanting Gerard to get the wrong idea, like it fucking matters. He doesn’t have a chance with the guy, why does he care so much what Gerard thinks? It’s not like it’ll even matter in the long run.

“Oh, so she’s just a girl you like,” Ray says nodding, as he pulls a practice jersey over his head.

“Yeah, I mean, it’s nothing. It’s not a big deal. I don’t even know if I like her that much or if I’m just sort of homesick. Homesick for a place that never even really felt like home, but… oh you know. Whatever. It’s not important.”

“I doubt this girl even really exists,” Morgan, whose eyebrows grow ever more menacing the more time that passes, says. “I had you pegged as a fairy the second I saw you.”

Frank’s blood turns to lead. He’s sure he must go chalk white at the words, because he feels as though he’s got a weight on his shoulders so heavy that it just might crush him, like a house or a mountain, just decided to perch itself on him. He can actually feel his blood run cold, so cold that it might have even frozen completely, because he can’t even feel his heart beating, that’s how terrified he is. 

This can’t be how the secret comes out. Not on the second fucking day of practice. He moved all the way here, a school which he couldn’t give less of a shit about if it weren’t for the hockey. He came all this way just for this opportunity, and he can’t have the rug pulled out from under his feet this soon. It’s not fair. 

This just can’t be happening! It _can’t_. Frank hasn’t given any signs, no indication, not dropped any hints whatsoever that he’s gay, how on earth can someone have decided that about him already? He doesn’t even know this tool, who the fuck does Morgan think he is?

“Fuck off, Morgan, nobody asked you,” Brendon says, who Frank now feels has the voice of an angel. People don’t usually defend him. Though in all fairness, Brendon is probably not defending him so much as he is insulting Morgan. But Morgan’s a dick so he’ll take the help wherever he can get it. 

“’Course _you’d_ defend him,” Morgan says, with a sneer, slamming a locker right next to Brendon’s face, making him jump from the sudden sound. He gets all up in the guy’s personal space, and practically spits his words out at him. “Defending your own.”

Brendon makes a move like he’s about to deck the guy before Pete intercedes, only seconds before Gerard has the chance to. It probably wouldn’t bode well for the team if one of them has a black eye, given to him by his own teammate. This school already isn’t taken seriously in the division, that would just be the nail in the coffin. Though, to be honest, Frank doesn’t know how it’s possible for this school to have gone this long without a scandal like that, because this Morgan guy is a real character, and not a good one. 

“That’s enough,” Pete says, and he’s clenching his jaw tightly, facing Morgan rather than Brendon. It’s like his anger is aimed only at him rather than Brendon, which, for a captain doesn’t seem entirely fair. What Morgan said was wrong, and Frank will be the first to admit it, but Brendon was a second away from punching the dude. Pete really shouldn’t take sides in a situation like that. Frank’s, of course, a hypocrite, because he too would be blaming Morgan entirely, but Pete should remain neutral when it comes to arguments in the team.

“Whatever,” Morgan says, and he rolls his eyes, before backing away from the interaction and then walking past Frank in order to get to the ice. He doesn’t, however, forget to slam into Frank’s shoulder on his way past. Frank turns to look at him as he passes, and Morgan turns back only for a second. They share a fleeting moment of eye contact where Morgan just smirks at him, and Frank looks back with fear that he’s trying to disguise as determination.

He still feels as though his blood has stopped circulating, as though the world has gone white and fuzzy, ready to completely drop itself in the eventuality that Frank faints from terror. He can’t allow that though, it would be too conspicuous a sign that Morgan’s words got to him. Frank can’t let Morgan affect him like that, it would be a dead giveaway.

He tries to make his face less transparent, takes a few deep breaths, in and out, in and out. He needs to remain level headed.

So what if Morgan suspects? So what? Morgan is a dick. No one will listen to him, they probably all think he’s just spreading slander, which for a guy like that, wouldn’t be surprising.

The entire locker room, which is about half of the team, is silent for at least a minute, no one wanting to be the first to break the silence and have to follow up the exchange.

Frank takes several more deep breaths, trying to muster up the courage to say something witty, or to break the tension in some other way, any other way. He wishes someone else would do it for him, but the more time that passes, the more it becomes unlikely that anyone will. With each second of silence, it becomes harder and harder to find something to say to break it. 

“Well, I don’t mean to point out the elephant in the room,” Frank says, “but that guy is a dick.”

There’s a pause, and then Gerard snorts out laughter behind him, and then a few of the other guys, mainly the ones that Frank had hung out with yesterday, are soon to follow. Frank glows a little at that, proud of himself for making people laugh. He likes making other people laugh, it’s one of his favorite things in the world, but he doesn’t get the option to do so that much.

Frank walks over to Brendon, once he’s got all of his gear on, and he’s about to ask him if he’s alright, because Brendon looks still very on edge and angry, but Brendon’s not having any of it.

“I don’t really want to talk about it, if that’s what you’re here to say,” Brendon says, after Frank opens his mouth to say something. He opens and then closes his mouth a few more times as he tries to find something to say, looking like a guppy. 

“I just… sorry,” Frank says. His heart rate has calmed down to a steadier pace after having Pete defend Brendon like that, and after having the guys willing to laugh at his words rather than start analyzing him too critically to see if Morgan had been telling the truth. He didn’t get a chance to really deny Morgan’s words, though, but if everyone thinks the guy is a jerk, then hopefully they won’t pay heed to the slander, however true it might happen to be.

It gets Frank to wondering though, if Morgan is in the business of calling people out, and considering he was actually right about Frank, maybe he knows something that Frank doesn’t know. Maybe Brendon’s angry for the same reason that Frank had been terrified…

He doesn’t get a chance to ask, and he wouldn’t in a busy locker room even if he did have the chance. 

“Don’t worry about him, guys,” Pete says, rolling his eyes, as if to demonstrate how he feels about the guy. “Morgan cries wolf all the time. He’ll accuse anyone of anything, just to see if it scares them. That’s all he cares about, getting people to fear him.”

“And we all fucking do,” Brendon says, looking still unbelievably angry about the whole ordeal. “Dude’s a backstabber.”

“Yeah, off the ice, sure,” Pete says, “but he’s dependable as a team player. He may not like you, but on the ice, he doesn’t let those opinions get in his way. That’s the only reason we keep him here. Hardly anyone likes the guy, but damn if he ain’t good.”

“Good is one thing,” Gerard says, “but no team is ever going to recruit him. No one wants a guy like that on their team.”

“Gerard’s been trying to get Morgan kicked off the team for ages,” Pete whispers. “But coach won’t have any of it. To be fair, I don’t know if I want him kicked off either. He may be a royal, unparalleled asshole, but fuck, we already suck as it is, without him, we might as well stop playing altogether.”

“I played with him,” Gerard says, “I know what he’s like. Yeah, he’s good, I’m not going to be denying that to anyone. The dude can play. But never has a more indecent, slimy, piece of vermin walked this planet. Not ever.”

“We should get out there,” Ray says, butting in. “I hate him as much as all of you guys, but Coach will be pissed at all of us if we’re not out there soon.”

Ray makes a good point. So, Frank, and the rest of the guys all follow through the door where Morgan had made his dramatic exit. Frank is somewhat nervous about having to face the guy again, as Morgan is off-putting. He’s like a snake in the grass. You know he’s there, but you don’t know when or if he’s going to decide to strike. 

Practice goes as they usually go, only a little less dramatic or intense as the one’s Frank had grown used to at Boston. Frank is thrown into the middle of the team and he’s treated more like a team player than he had been yesterday. Especially by Pete, who has taken a liking to him, it seems. This is good news for Frank, because as captain, Pete’s the only person that’s imperative to please besides Coach and Gerard.

It's true that Morgan isn’t the same on the ice as he is off it. On the ice, he’s a team player. Frank wouldn’t exactly call him courteous, but he passes the puck, he’s got a good head on his shoulders, a brain that knows the game like the back of his hand. Frank doesn’t like him, not one bit, but he can see why anyone would be hesitant to kick him off the team. The dude is good. His skills almost parallel even Frank’s.

Pete’s pretty good as well. He wouldn’t be the captain if he weren’t, especially as only a junior. He definitely has leadership skills, he calls most of the shots and has the most to say, more than even Coach or Gerard.

Gerard is an interesting matter. Gerard had not been lying when he said he’d give Frank hell. Gerard will yell at anybody, for any reason, no matter how he feels about them. Gerard plays no favorites on the ice. He yells at Mikey more than anybody else, and Frank supposes it’s because they’re brothers. Gerard wants nothing less than the best out of his own brother, but it’s a little harsh, even Frank can admit. He hardly seems like the same guy that Frank had breakfast with not too long ago.

Once Frank starts showing him what he wants to see, Gerard lightens up. Frank finds a rhythm. He starts to understand the team, understands the mechanics of their movements. He’d spent a good two or three hours earlier reading through the plans Gerard had given him, and he starts to recognize the patterns he’d looked at in action. They’ve actually got a good strategy. If only the team knew how to work together in a more functional way. 

Halfway through practice, Pete calls for everyone to take a break, and then he pulls Frank aside to talk with him away from everyone else’s ears. Gerard walks around to the side of the rink to join the discussion, leaning over the railing.

“So, Frank, you’re the newbie. You’ve got fresh eyes. What, in your eyes, is our problem? I can’t seem to figure it out, because when I look at these guys, it’s like, they know what they’re doing, they all know how to skate, they all know what our strategies are, and yet, the follow through during games is never there. We’re doing something wrong, but we’re all too invested in the middle to see what it is.”

“Oh, well, um,” Frank says, “honestly, it’s your teamwork. Well, that, and your lack of foresight.”

“Teamwork,” Pete repeats, wrinkling his eyebrows, and his face asks of Frank to go on.

“Yeah,” Frank replies, “you guys are passing the puck to all the right people at all the right times, but you’re not thinking ahead either. You’re, I mean _we’re_ , fifteen separate minds all buzzing with different thoughts, when what we need is to all be one. You can’t have that many different brains all working to different tunes at the same time. A team needs to be a seamless blend of everyone, everyone needs to be able to read the mind of everyone else and know what comes next. This team simply isn’t doing that. You’re all thinking in the present, ‘what should I do know at this very moment?’ or ‘where should I be now?’ That’s not how it should be. It should be, ‘this is where my team need me right now.’ There shouldn’t be a question to it. You should know your teammates, and they should know you. It doesn’t take any sort of huge emotional connection, really, it’s about knowing what to expect. That should, ideally, just come with the territory, it should be like learning how to ride a bike, spread over some amount of time.”

“That’s a lot to take in all at once,” Pete says. “We’re not thinking in each other’s heads enough, that’s what you’re saying?” 

“Kind of. You’re working together, but it’s like you’re building a car with parts from all completely different models. You need to make sure that all the parts fit, or the car won’t start. You’ve got too many minds thinking at once. Each player should know their role and what the rest of the team expects from them. They shouldn’t have to guess. You throw six guys out in a rink together, they’d damn well better know where each and every one of those guys is at any given second, and what they’ll do next.”

“Alright,” Pete nods, and he turns to Gerard, who’s nodding like he agrees with Frank’s words also.

“So, how do we go about reaching that goal, Frank?” Gerard asks, looking at him like some sort of expert, like it’s _Frank’s_ job to come up with these things, not theirs. 

“You guys are the ones in charge, I just work here,” Frank says, throwing his hands up like he’s trying to defend himself.

“Yeah, but whatever we’re doing isn’t working,” Gerard says.

“Well, I don’t know,” Frank says, shrugging. He had been the captain of his high school team, and getting the team to work together had sort of come flawlessly for him. They all kind of worked around him, though, circling him, and relying on him too much, which put a lot of pressure on him. Here, Frank has already seen proof that the players beside him are better than the ones he had to work with before, quite clearly so. They simply are the best of the best, otherwise they wouldn’t have made it on the team. But they lack one detrimental key that even the shitty team Frank was on had had. They lack a cohesiveness. 

“I’ve noticed for a while now, actually, that the team lacks the ability to think in advance,” Gerard says, “during games, you guys account for where a teammate might be, but fail to predict the other teams moves altogether.”

“We should run some practice games,” Pete says. “Enough with the passing, scoring, checking. We’ve all got the basics down. We need to turn up the heat on this.”

“We could do,” Gerard nods, “but we’re going to have to extend practice times if we do them.”

“Whatever works,” Pete shrugs, and Frank shakes his head, because there’s one, huge, gaping flaw that they’re not factoring in.

“What?” Gerard asks, sensing Frank’s skepticism, “what is it?”

“Well, the trouble is, with practice games, is that you put teammates against each other who are reading from the same playbook.”

“What do you mean by that?” Gerard asks.

“Well, it doesn’t do anyone any good if you divide a group into two teams and they’re playing the same strategies as each other. Because then both teams know what to anticipate from each other. They know what’s coming, because they know the same things that the other side does.”

“So, what you’re saying is that we need two entirely different playbooks,” Gerard summarizes. “Ours, and one to represent the other team.”

“We need the ability to give the players an opportunity to catch each other off guard,” Frank says. “Throw them out there like baby dears, it’s the only way a practice game works. The only way to truly get a feel for what your team members will do in a certain situation is to run through those situations, as many as you can, so that there’s a backlog of memory that can predict the most likely outcome of every single person on the ice, given the knowledge of what those people have done in similar situations in the past.”

“Right,” Gerard nods, smiling at Frank, “pound it into their heads to learn each other’s moves inside and out. That way, when playing against a team that they don’t know, they have the knowledge of what their teammates have done before.”

“Exactly,” Frank says, “and the best way to come upon that information is to give them new situations to react to.”

“Frank,” Pete says very assuredly, “I don’t mean this lightly, trust me, I don’t, but you’re a bloody genius.”

Frank blushes, but shrugs, because honestly, it’s not that hard to figure out. It becomes clear very quickly what it is that they’re doing wrong here. If the practices go the same way that this and the last one have gone, it’s no wonder they keep losing. All they’re doing is running basic drills, passing, scoring, nothing that’s going to prepare them for what it’s actually like out there. 

Without time enough to get a practice game going, they finish off practice much the same way as it had begun. With regular drills, some monotonous passing, the works. Nothing that’s going to inspire anyone to do anything with their life. 

Frank’s still in a sweat despite the ease at which they’re practicing, with his feet really starting to cramp by the time Coach dismisses them to leave. He’s ready to get off the ice, and put his feet up for a while, get some rest before tomorrow which is sure to be a little more strenuous if Pete and Gerard stick to the plan they’d made.

He turns to Gerard, not sure why he feels the necessity to look over at the man, but he can’t stop himself. When he does see Gerard, standing in the box, he’s talking with a man that Frank has never seen before. He’s a rather short guy, with glasses, and a disposition that just sort of radiates awkwardness. Frank is confused as to why he’s here, because yesterday, Gerard had been very protective about letting Frank in, and this guy is clearly not a member of the team. Judging by the lack of any injuries, he also can’t be the player who just got injured. 

Frank isn’t the only one who notices the visitor, as Pete skates over to the edge of the rink very excitedly when he sees the man. He then beckons Frank over to introduce him.

“Frank! Over here,” Pete says, waving at him with a toothy grin spread across his face. “This is Patrick. He works for the school paper, he’s in charge of the hockey section. Patrick is like an honorary member of the team.”

Frank looks at him, and despite the fact that the seats are elevated compared to the ice rink, he can already tell that this Patrick guy is shorter than him, which is impressive to say the least. He must be like three feet tall to be shorter than Frank.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Patrick says, blushing. Patrick reminds him oddly of himself, Frank doesn’t know why, but there’s something about him that is very much after Frank’s own heart. Probably the sheer levels of awkwardness he manages to emanate simply by _existing_.

“Nonsense,” Pete says, “Patrick is the only guy in the world who can actually manage to make our shitty ass team sound good in print.”

“Nice to meet you,” Frank says, bringing his hand out to shake Patrick’s.

“And Patrick, this is Frank, you’ve heard all about him already.”

Patrick nods, “from you and Gerard both.”

Frank’s the one who blushes this time, but you can’t tell because his face is red and sweaty from the workout. Simply being on the ice for so long is exhausting. Probably more so for hockey than figure skating, because while jumping makes you tired out and weak, you’re usually wearing nice breathable clothes, whereas in hockey you’re weighted down in bulky padding.

“Too bad you missed most of practice,” Pete says, “You should see him on the ice.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, timidly. “I actually came here to ask if I can interview you.”

“Me?” Frank asks.

“Uh, yeah,” Patrick says. “Your arrival is a big upset to this team. Not that it’s a bad thing, I don’t mean that of course. I just, well, I wouldn’t be doing my job properly if I didn’t interview you for the section.” Patrick looks flustered, nervous. Frank can’t fathom what about him could make the guy nervous, because Frank is not a scary person to begin with. Patrick must just be that awkward, which is more than Frank. This guy is both shorter and more awkward than Frank, so honestly, he doesn’t know how the guy has _survived_ this long. 

“Oh,” Frank nods, “right.”

Frank’s late arrival to the school, and the injury of the other player is probably the only thing for this guy to write about, given how crap the team is, and how they’ve already lost the only game they’ve played in the season so far. It can’t be an easy job having to drag a team this bad on his back and make them sound good. Anything positive, or not pertaining to the team’s inevitable losses, is bound to be refreshing. 

“Yeah, so like, anytime I can steal you away, would be great,” Patrick says, and Pete has this funny look on his face that Frank cannot even begin to describe. When he can’t find a word that even comes close to that expression, he just gives up and resigns to keeping it a mystery.

“P-Pete,” Patrick says, “you can come along too. It might, uh, it might be important to have your insight on him too. Like, get your take on what having Frank on the team will be like.”

“Yeah!” Pete says, excitedly. “Actually, let’s go now!”

“What, now? As in _now_ now?” Frank asks.

“Yeah!” Pete says again, excitedly. “Why not?”

“Uh, are you free?” Patrick asks. Frank waits for Pete to answer, but then realizes that he obviously already knows Pete’s answer.

“Uh, sure, I suppose,” Frank says, with a shrug. He doesn’t really have anything else to do. He was hoping to maybe corner Gerard and talk to him a little more, but that’s not a good idea and he knows it, considering how much he’s starting to like the guy. 

“I should come,” Gerard says, in this weird, sort of possessive tone. “I mean, I’m assistant coach, it only makes sense.

“Gerard probably knows Frank better than anyone else here!” Pete say. 

“Well guys, it’s still like, Frank’s interview, you know,” Patrick says. “He’s the new player, after all.”

“Of course!” Pete says, “but like, that doesn’t mean we can’t come, right?” 

Frank has this weird feeling like Pete and Gerard are getting a little possessive, and he can’t explain why. Frank has this momentary flicker in his head that maybe Gerard is trying to keep an eye on him, like he’s jealous of everyone else. That’s ridiculous of course, but Frank’s brain likes to play tricks on him. It likes to pretend that Gerard is into him, which is stupid, but he can’t stop himself from going down that road. 

“Sure,” Patrick says, “whatever works for you.”

“Great!” Pete says, “then we’ll all go! It’ll be fun!” 

Frank must be blind not to see the ulterior motives going on here. They’ve all got them, all four of them have something else to gain, but he tricks himself into thinking he’s the only one. If Gerard comes, that gives him time to talk to him, to get close to him, with the idiotic purpose of getting Gerard to fall in love with him. 

He is an idiot not to see the clockwork surrounding every step taken, by _everyone_ so far, in this entire school.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't actually plan on updating this fic twice this weekend, but this chapter just sort of happened, so I've decided to roll with it. Please leave a comment, if you're up to it!


	7. If Only He Knew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A couple bombshells.

Frank, practically dripping in his own sweat, and feeling really gross about it, can’t seem to clean himself up enough in the locker room. It’s like Gerard will be able to tell that he’s kind of gross and sweaty. He’s almost tempted to take a shower, but he also doesn’t want to look like he cares _that_ much. He ends up just really coating himself up in deodorant because honestly, he’d rather smell like whatever the fuck arctic fresh is than body odor. There’s a guy in the locker room, and Frank doesn’t know who, but he uses Axe and it makes Frank want to fucking kill someone. Part of him feels like it could be Pete, because he’s the kind of guy who’d do that just to make people uncomfortable.

Frank spends about two minutes just looking in the mirror trying to perfect his hair, because, while he has never cared about his appearance before, he has also never been in close proximity to a guy he likes for extended periods of time before, so he wants to make a good impression. This is future make-believe husband, he’s talking about here, his mother would be very disappointed in him if he didn’t at least put in some effort. 

Behind him, there’s the sound of lockers slamming, and then, quite suddenly, a very feminine yelp which comes from Mikey who, being the smart cookie that he is, tried to slam the locker door shut on his hand. 

“Ow, shit, motherfucker,” Mikey screams, hopping up and down in place for a couple of seconds while everyone just sort of stares at him and shake their heads, including Frank.

“Nice one, Mikes,” Travie says, giving him a solid nod. A sarcastic one at that, but still. 

Mikey shakes his hand, trying to ebb the pain away, while he makes a face, but he goes back to zipping up his bag a moment later.

“Oh my god, Mikey, you’re such a pussy,” Morgan says, because when you’re a dick, you’re job as a dick is to act like a dick whenever the situation arises to show off your dick prowess. 

Mikey just shrugs, “well, you are what you eat.”

Pete stops, gives Mikey this look, and then puts his hand on Mikey’s shoulder and says, “I’m proud of you, my son.”

“That’s all I ask of you,” Mikey says, nodding graciously.

Pete turns to Frank a few moments later who’s hair is as perfect as it’s ever going to be, which is to say, a mess. Pete, who could honestly earn himself a record for fastest changing time, doesn’t seem to mind having to wait too long for him, he just kind of rolls with whatever you give him, which Frank admires. 

Pete is very happy-go-lucky. He’s also one of a kind. There is most definitely no one else like Pete on this planet. And thank God for that. But Frank likes him, he’s quite fond of the guy. He admires him in a way. Not so much attracted to him as he is just happy to see that someone so pure and joyful can exist. 

Morgan huffs, because he can’t deny it when he’s been beaten, but that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t spare Frank from the constant abuse his shoulder has received every time this guy has ever walked past him. It really can’t be good for his shoulder either, like surely, he’s got a Frank shaped bruise there, but he’s the one that keeps walking into him. 

“You ready to go?” Pete asks, eventually having enough of Frank obsessing over every single strand of hair he has on his head.

“Oh, uh, yeah,” he says, shrugging. He wishes he smelled a little nicer, but that’s not going to happen with this short of a window.

“Right, let’s go!” Pete says, exiting the locker room where Patrick and Gerard are waiting on the other side.

Frank has a moment or two to spare to ask about Patrick before they meet up with him, so he does so, asking simply, “so what’s the deal with Patrick then?”

“What do you mean?” Pete asks.

“Just, like, I mean, is he a friend?” Frank asks, and he doesn’t mean for it to sound slightly sexual but it comes across that way anyway.

Pete blushes and says, “Yeah, yeah! He’s my best friend actually. We met in freshman year.”

“Oh, right, okay,” Frank says.

“And he’s done the hockey section since like middle of that year, so he’s practically a team member now. He comes with us on basically all of our games.”

“Okay, cool,” Frank shrugs. If Pete likes him, he supposes, Patrick must be a good guy. He doesn’t seem like he isn’t, Frank’s just a naturally curious person, and Pete’s acting kind of weird which is just making him confused. Then again Pete acting weird so far just seems to be his personality. 

Pete’s got the personality of like a really old dog who hasn’t gotten the memo yet. He’s got a lot of years on him, and probably some semblance of wisdom to match, and yet he’s energetic and excited by everything anyway. Not that Pete’s old, he just gives off the vibe of an older dog. 

Gerard, Frank would probably describe as a cat who’s just kind of _done_ with all of that. 

They find Pete and Gerard talking by the door, about, comic books, of course. What else? It’s a very one-sided conversation however, as Gerard is using his hands to describe something, and he’s probably not even aware of the fact that he’s speaking out loud, while Patrick just looks back at him like an exasperated mother.

“Hey!” Pete says, “Let’s do this thing.”

“Right, yeah,” Patrick nods, looking slightly nervous. He’s probably not accustomed to such large groups of people, either. Even Frank considers three, not including himself, to be too many people, and he seems to have many things in common with Patrick.

Pete suggests that they head to the dining hall because neither he nor Frank has eaten yet, and the other two shrug without objection. Gerard seems like the kind of guy who eats ramen at least ten times a week, but he also seems like the kind of guy who empties a bottle of siracha on one serving of ramen. 

They walk over to the main dining hall, with casual talk filling up the air around them, which unfortunately doesn’t make it any warmer, so Frank has to hold his arms to his chest to try to retain his body heat. It’s getting colder faster as the years go by, and Frank doesn’t know whether to accredit that to the fact that he’s getting older or global climate change. Possibly both.

Patrick isn’t very talkative, but he’s a good listener, or at least, he is when Pete is talking. Pete is usually talking though. Gerard’s rather talkative as well, but Pete is even more so, Gerard has been out trumped when it comes to not shutting the hell up.

“So, what exactly do you need to know about me?” Frank asks Patrick once Pete and Gerard start getting into it about some band they both like, that Frank, astonishingly hasn’t heard of. He’s heard of most bands, or at least, he likes to think he has. 

“Nothing too intimate. Just hockey stuff, really. It would be great if you could talk about winning in high school, how many championships did you say you won?”

“Three,” Frank says, “every year after freshman year.”

“Wow,” Patrick says, looking amazing. “Well that’s nothing to sneeze at, is it?”

“No, definitely not,” Frank says, laughing. 

“Wow, and you came _here_?” Patrick asks, looking curious, because why would anyone ever make such a stupid decision?

“I was offered a scholarship I couldn’t refuse,” Frank says. Having a single mother, and also being as poor as they actually are, the mere thought of saying no to a full ride was idiotic. He’s still going to have to pay for the first year at Boston that he’s not going to finish, but that’s still an enormous amount of money that he’ll end up saving. Literally, he could buy a house with the money he’ll save.

“Well, I guess that’s fair,” Patrick nods. “Hey, maybe this’ll be the year we finally win the tournament, huh? We’ve got another Way, we haven’t won it since we had one, maybe our luck will come back.”

“We didn’t win when _I_ got here,” Gerard says, with a scowl. 

“Oh, oops, you’re right,” Patrick says, and makes a face which Frank smiles at. 

“We have two Way’s now, though,” Pete says. “One on the team, one who bosses us around and calls us names.”

“Mikey may like to insult people, but he’s not bossy,” Gerard says, laughing at his own joke. 

Frank smiles, and he looks over at Gerard, who is honestly so pretty by the light of a lamppost. His face is all the more pale than usual, which is saying something, but he seems to practically glow from the light. He’s so fucking pretty, it’s aggravating, how aren’t most of the people on the team gay when they have to look at Gerard so much? Gerard’s just got one of those faces, he’s probably a lot of people’s exceptions, much like Idris Elba, and probably Travie.

“Has Gerard told you about the championship game his dad won?” Patrick asks.

“No, I don’t think he has,” Frank says, even though he’s sure he hasn’t. All he managed to weasel out of Gerard was that he was a legacy, and that’s about it. He knows that they won a championship, the last championship they ever did win, forty years ago, and that Gerard’s father apparently had a lot to do with it, but that’s all he really knows. 

“Oh, it’s not that exciting,” Gerard shrugs.

“Not that exciting?” Patrick asks, “that was probably the best game of college hockey ever played.”

“What, really?” Frank asks, now looking curious.

“Nah,” Gerard shrugs.

“Well, I want to hear about it,” Frank says, stuffing his hands into his pockets when they start to go slightly numb from the cold. Unfortunately, it’s not a short walk from here to the dining hall. Frank hasn’t actually been there yet, because his plane got in after he’d already eaten last night, and then he’d had breakfast with Gerard which filled him up until he had a bag of chips. He doesn’t know how good the food is here, but Boston’s was comparable to a high school cafeteria, otherwise known as absolute shit. 

“Okay, fine,” Gerard says, “well, really, like we were not the projected winners. We were the fourth seed in regionals, and we somehow won, barely though. Then throughout quarter and semifinals we kept on scraping by, don’t know how the fuck we even got there, right? Because the team wasn’t supposed to even make it into the tournament, because our hockey team had been new at the time, only like two or three years old. But then it got to the championship game, and Minnesota was like easily the best team at the time, right, like they should’ve trampled us. And, they kind of did. At first. So, by the third period we had one goal. That was it. Minnesota had five.”

“ _Five_?” Frank asks, incredulous, “you were down by four whole goals? In the _last_ period?”

“I know, it’s insane, right?” Patrick says, looking excited, because apparently, this is his favorite story. He probably has to have a reflection piece every other week in his column about a game like that. Especially when considering how shit the other games he could describe are.

“Well anyway,” Gerard says, “we got a goal in about two or three minutes into the clock in the third period, but like, everyone assumed it was a sinking ship, of course. There was no helping it. And like, that seemed like it’d be true, until the last seven minutes of the game. As my dad tells it, Minnesota had already decided they’d won, so they kind of stopped trying. Because there’s seven minutes left, they’re up by three, there’s no way this measly little team is gonna beat them. Obviously not. So, then my dad gets another goal, ‘cause the other guys are getting lazy, wasn’t even that hard. He scored the first goal and then the third. And then, maybe like two minutes on the clock left, they get another one. At that point we were down by one, four to five. Minnesota still assumed they had it though, because we were down by one, two minutes left, there’s not a chance. We’d already scored three goals in the final period, no way in hell we were gonna get another. That just doesn’t happen. My dad says that there was thirty seconds left. Thirty whole seconds left. That was it. When he scored another goal.”

“Fucking hell,” Frank says. 

“Right, so it gets to overtime. My dad’s out there, course he is, he scored three goals. But like, five minutes are up, still no goals. We get to double overtime, right, and we end up still fucking tied. But finally, in triple overtime, not my dad, it was the captain actually, finally scores a goal. And like, it was a huge upset, ‘cause no one expected us to win, we really should’ve lost. It was probably the _strangest_ win that the tournament had ever seen, might even be to this day. But we won, in _triple_ overtime, after one of the longest games the NCAA had ever even seen. It was such a big deal, too, man, like according to my dad, he had the pick of the ladies after that. I don’t doubt it, though, honestly.”

“Holy shit,” Frank says, aghast, because honestly, he would sell the entire left sight of his body to see a game like that in person. Hell, he’d sell his soul and his fucking body to have been Gerard’s dad during that game.

“Fuck, I wish I was there,” Pete says, shaking his head.

“Yeah,” Gerard says, “it was a great game, no doubt about it. It’s just, I’ve lived my entire life in the shadow of _that_.”

“Oh,” Frank nods, understanding. He supposes it makes sense why he wouldn’t want to talk too much about his dad or that game when you consider that Gerard has no tournament wins under his belt at all. Not in high school, not in college, not as a coach. That’s got to be a little infuriating. 

Frank almost feels guilty, having won three of the four big games he’s ever played. He just gulps down whatever comments he’d intended to say, and allows them to walk in silence for a little while more. Or, it would be silence if Pete weren’t there. 

They finally reach the dining hall, after what feels like an eight-mile jog, but to be fair, Frank’s feet are incredibly tired and aching after being in skates for so long. The dining hall is connected to the largest dorm on campus, and it looks like pretty much any other college dining hall from the outside, not nearly as big as the one at Boston, but this is also a much smaller school. It’s not as big as most of the ones that Frank looked at when he was touring colleges, though. 

Gerard pulls the door open, and then holds it for everyone to walk in before him, and they make their way into the building, relief bubbling in Frank at the warmth that presents itself. It’s not incredibly busy right now, because it’s nearly nine, not exactly rush hour for food. Patrick and Gerard go find a spot near the window to sit and wait while Pete and Patrick grab food. 

It is, despite being quite small, an absolutely stunning room. The ceiling above is vaulted, with large windows arraying the walls that look out onto the campus outside. It’s so close to the edge of campus that the windows of the far wall expose a forest that Frank hadn’t even known was there. He makes a note to go explore the grounds around campus at some point, especially since there’s supposed to be a river just a mile down the road. There’s these big, elegant lights in the hall as well, almost chandeliers but not quite as intricate. There’s an exposed brick wall which divides the stations where you get food apart from the tables. The two of them make their way past it, all the while Frank staring in awe at the room around him. He hadn’t been expecting so beautiful an interior considering what the outside had looked like, but he’s being consistently proved wrong about this school. This school has definitely shown itself to be something very different than what Frank was expecting. 

Frank has been pleasantly surprised many times so far. He was pleasantly surprised by how beautiful this town is, then by the fact that his roommate is actually one of the coolest dudes ever, then by the fact that Coach likes him, then by the fact that the captain of the team likes him too, then by the fact that he’s actually made what can be construed as _friends_ , and it’s only the second day. What’s more, he’d originally thought Gerard might not have liked him, and now it turns out Gerard actually does, or at least, Frank thinks he does because he doesn’t know too many people who would invite a guy they hate out to breakfast. He wishes Gerard liked him the way Frank likes him, but that’s something way beyond wishful thinking. That’s lunacy.

The only downsides so far have been Morgan and the weather. The weather has been pretty misty, and rainy. Today it was cold, harsh autumnal cold, which is the worst because you’re not expecting it so you never prepare for it, which leaves you colder. Frank doesn’t even have a winter jacket, he packed it along with all of his other things, so it probably won’t even be here for another few days. 

And then there’s Morgan. Morgan also has about three or four guys on the team who definitely side with him. Frank had made a note of that earlier in the locker room. When he’d called Morgan a dick, there had been three very distinct faces who did not agree. He’s got to watch out for those guys, not as much as Morgan, but still.

Frank doesn’t fully understand why Morgan resents him so much, though. Frank is a good player, yeah, he’ll admit to it. He outshines most people when he’s on the ice. But Morgan is damn good too, and Frank would even say that they’re almost matched. He wouldn’t even wager that he’s the better of the two of them. 

In the dining hall, Frank’s eyes go wide when he sets them for the first time on the pasta bar, which he’s just now decided is now his favorite place in the entire fucking world. There’s about eight different sauces, and Frank makes a note to try all of them. He grabs himself a healthy portion of pasta, probably more than he’d be able to eat if he hadn’t gone without food for so long, and a few slices of garlic bread. Then he has to battle off with Pete when he asks if he’s a vegetarian and then has to hear the “I’ve never seen a hockey player who was a vegetarian before” speech that he’s heard before, and will no doubt hear again. 

People like to go on and on about how he’s a sports player who really should get more protein, which usually comes from meat, but he just combats them with “well am I dead? No? Then it looks like I must know what I’m fucking doing.” 

He and Pete make their way over to the two, and this time Patrick’s actually talking when they interrupt. Frank hears a snippet of a conversation about a professor that he really likes, whom Gerard must have had before, but he stops abruptly when the two of them sit down.

It’s a small table, one meant for only four people, and Pete takes the seat next to Patrick before Frank can even consider who he’d rather sit next to. 

“Did you guys know Frank was a vegetarian?” Pete asks when they sit down, with this look on his face like he’s just heard the most interesting news in the world. Frank’s arm brushes against Gerard as he sits down and he feels like a teenage girl for a moment, when it’s like electricity just to touch. He’s got it fucking _bad_.

“Yeah, actually,” Gerard says, “he told the waiter at breakfast.”

Frank had forgotten all about that, how he’d told the waiter not to prepare his food with anything that cooked meat, because Gerard hadn’t said anything of it, which is unusual when people hear that. People love to be so concerned about his diet, but Gerard had just brushed it off. Even his mom gives him the stink eye occasionally, usually when she has to prepare him a completely separate meal during Thanksgiving dinner. It makes him smile when he thinks about it, though. It’s tiny, something he probably wouldn’t even notice if it weren’t Gerard, but it’s nice. It’s the little things that count the most, in the end. 

“Wait,” Patrick stops, “you two went out for breakfast?”

“Yeah,” Gerard says, and Patrick gives him this glare like he wants more out of him.

“I thought I mentioned that to you earlier,” Pete says. 

“No,” Patrick says. “Since when has Gerard ever gotten all buddy-buddy with a fresher?”

“Um, since my brother started here?” Gerard offers. “And my brothers best friend?”

“Okay, but other than them,” Patrick says, and he makes it out to seem like it’s a big deal. Apparently these three are really close friends, though, which makes Frank slightly jealous, because he’s never had friends and also Gerard is _his_.

“I’m allowed to be nice to people,” Gerard says frowning, and he’s still frowning when he turns to look at Frank who’s in the middle of a less than attractive bite of pasta. He puts his hand over his mouth, slurping up the hanging noodle and hopes that Gerard hadn’t looked at him too hard. 

“Right, so Gerard aside, how are you getting along with the rest of the team so far?” Patrick asks. Frank had almost forgotten that Patrick was interviewing him, and then he sees the notebook in front of him, and the interested look he has on his face. 

“I think pretty well, or at least I hope so. Well, Morgan hates me…”

“Yeah, but who doesn’t he hate?” Patrick shrugs.

“Yeah, sorry about that though,” Pete says, looking guilty, and Frank doesn’t understand why.

“It’s not your fault,” Frank says. 

“It kinda is.”

“What? Why?”

“Oh, man, you don’t know?” Pete asks, and when he receives a look of confusion on Frank’s face, he continues, “Morgan hates you because _I_ like you.”

“What?” Frank asks.

“Well, see, Morgan and I were the alternate cpatains for Lance. And when Lance got injured, the team voted, and I won. It’s a popularity contest, no doubt about that. Morgan and I actually used to, well, I wouldn’t say ‘get along’ exactly, but he didn’t hate me. Like, with Morgan, him not hating you is the best thing you can ask for. But when I was voted in, and since he kind of deserves it more than I do, he just started to resent me. But then you came along and I sided with you pretty early on, and he started hating you because of it.”

“Oh,” Frank nods, and things start to make a little more sense. That would explain a few things. Morgan might have even started to hate him before he even got here. If he was out for the captain gig, and Pete stole that away from him, anything would piss him off about the new situation. It might even be Lance’s fault when you think about it like that. Though really, no one’s to blame. Morgan’s just a dick. It’s Morgan’s own fault for being a dick. Frank says as much and the other three laugh at the idea, because they know it’s true. 

“Well, other than _Morgan_ ,” Patrick says, stressing his name with a snarl, “how is the team?”

“They’re all pretty nice, I think,” Frank shrugs. “Not the best players in the world, though.”

“Well, I’ve filled two and a half years with almost those exact words,” Patrick says.

“Oh, right, yeah, sorry.”

“So, what would you say was your best moment in high school?”

“Um, I don’t know,” Frank shrugs. “I scored the winning goal in two of our final games.”

“That’s cool,” Patrick says, and then he gets the details from Frank about the games he won. He won one of them at four to two, the next at three to two, and the final one he won seven to three. He also has his face plastered on the entire website for his old high school, and a bench with his name on it. 

“I thought they usually named benches after dead people?” Pete says.

“Well, this time they named it after a guy who resurrected the dead,” Gerard says. 

Frank blushes. He feels particularly embarrassed whenever Gerard compliments him. It also carries more weight. There’s just something special about him. Frank has this warm feeling in his bones like he’s going to know Gerard for a very long time, which is unfortunate given that it is day two of that very long time and he already has a crush on the guy. Things can only get worse from here, but he can’t help himself. 

“What do you hope to bring to the team?” Patrick asks, not even looking up as he continues to write things down. 

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I would say that he’s brought unity,” Gerard says, and Frank is going to perpetually be pink if Gerard doesn’t shut his cute fucking mouth up. “Like, so far, people have been kind of hesitant to let him in, but like, he’s doing a good job. Our goal is to bring unity or togetherness into the game, and Frank’s got some good ideas as to how to do that.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Pete agrees, “he’s actually really smart. I want to pick your brain sometime, Frank, because, honestly, I thought _I_ liked hockey.” 

“Actually, talk more about that,” Patrick says, addressing Frank. “What makes you like hockey? Or better yet, when did you get into it, how long have you been playing?”

“I’ve been playing hockey since about the time I could walk,” Frank says. “I started skating, well, I started skating because my neighbor, this amazing skater, she was always on the ice. I lived next to a pond growing up, and I would watch her out there, and I got kind of jealous of her, so one day I went out there to watch her and try to mimic her and she sort of just decided to take me under her wing. We started off really slow, her just teaching me how to balance, and then she got me into watching skating on TV with her so I understood the sport, anything really. We’d watch regular hockey games, we never missed the Stanley Cup, and then the grand prix, or the Olympics, you name it. And then, you know, by the time I got to about third or fourth grade I decided to join a peewee team, and she helped me through that too. She was so good to me, honestly, this little kid who was bothering her, she should’ve focused on her own skating, really dedicated herself to her own art, but instead she took me on. She still managed to be the best goddamn skater you ever could see, though, she actually won four gold medals in figure skating.”

“Ew, figure skating,” Gerard says making a face, and Pete nods.

“I fucking hate them twirlers,” Pete says. “They make it hard for anyone to take hockey seriously.”

“I know right,” Gerard says with a groan.

Frank feels like his heart has dropped several stories before crashing to the ground, turning into a pile of smothering ashes. It sucks, obviously, it sucks, to have Ray and Pete think poorly of figure skating, but to have even _Gerard_ hate it? That’s the worst news he possibly could have heard from the guy. Frank loves figure skating with all of his heart, and to have the guy that he likes just blatantly insult it like it’s no big deal, it breaks his heart. Frank just wishes that somebody, anybody, any one, especially in hockey, could accept figure skating. Not having anyone know except his own mother, it’s awful. Even his own neighbor thinks he quit, he just didn’t have the nerve to let anyone know. He still doesn’t.

The thing is, it’s not like figure skating is even a big deal to hockey players. It’s just a sport. It’s just a sport where people skate, it’s not that different from hockey. It’s actually _harder_ than hockey. Hockey players say shit about it for being easy when there’s no way any of them could do any of the stuff a figure skater does. No hockey player could ever do a quadruple lutz. Hell, no hockey player could do a fucking lutz to begin with. And yet they say all these mean things about it like it’s the same thing as coloring in a picture.

Hockey players don’t know shit when it comes to life outside the sport. They don’t understand that other people work just as hard, more even, and yet they’re brushed aside like it’s nothing. Like figure skating is too insignificant to earn even the slightest bit of respect.

Frank’s a better skater than every single one of his teammates, every last one he has or ever will have. He is, inherently so. And it’s because of all the time he’s spent figure skating. He is simply better than them. It also improves his hockey performance, being so good on the ice. A good skater can be bad at hockey, but Frank’s learned how to take the skills from each sport and utilize them in the other.

Frank has grace. He has balance, and flow, and rhythm. He can bring all of those things to hockey. But he also has the thrill of the chase, of the game, of the spectators. He has the rush of a good goal, or the pride in a perfect play. He can bring it to his figure skating, and blow away the world with him. He’s good at both because of the way he allows them to intertwine. They’re like a dance, bringing the aspects of both together like an entirely new, and beautiful creation.

Franks frowns at the thought of Gerard’s words, and of the thoughts of all the other hockey players, and his face visibly shows his disappointment. He just feels attacked, personally so, because they’re saying awful things about something he loves more than almost anything else, and they don’t even care that they’re hurting him. They can’t even know.

“Frank,” Gerard says, “come on, we don’t mean to insult the girl who taught you, or anything. I just really fucking hate figure skating. _You’re_ not a figure skater, so it’s fine, you found yourself an _actual_ skillset.” If he only knew.

“I…” Frank starts, “she worked really hard to get where she is today. Really fucking hard. Harder than you have ever worked.”

“Doing _twirls_ ,” Pete adds, with a roll of his eyes. 

“And you think that’s easy, do you?” Frank asks. “Could you ever, and I mean ever, land a jump?”

“It’s still stupid,” Pete shrugs.

“But it’s harder than hockey,” Frank replies.

“But hockey has a point,” Gerard says, “you’re on a team, you play a game, you’re actually doing something. Figure skaters just dance around.”

“What’s to stop a figure skater talking the same shit about hockey? It’s just a _game_ after all.”

“It’s a damn good one.”

“But that doesn’t mean that either sport is invalid,” Frank states. “It is perfectly acceptable to like one and not hate on the other. You don’t need to be genius to have the capacity to not be an asshole.”

Patrick, because he doesn’t like it when people argue and he definitely doesn’t like it when people are upset, which Frank most certainly is, interrupts to say, “well, I think I’ve gotten all I really need for that article. Now, if it’s cool with you guys, I eat, sleep, and breathe hockey, or at least it feels like it, so can we talk about something else?” 

“What?” Pete asks, looking confused to even find himself in a conversation, like he’d totally forgotten where he was for a moment. It’s not that he’s upset with Frank, he’s just annoyed that Frank would have the nerve to defend something so ridiculous as figure skating. 

“Right, yeah,” Gerard says, trying to shake off the tension he feels, which is not quite as easy as he would like. He can see that he really upset Frank, and now he’s cursing to himself because he shouldn’t have said anything. He _likes_ this boy. He gets butterflies when Frank so much as looks his way. Why would he say shit about someone Frank obviously likes? How could he be so stupid? He should’ve dropped it the second Frank got tense. 

Obviously, this girl means a lot to Frank. She did teach him how to skate after all. Who wouldn’t care about someone like that? Even if Gerard does hate figure skating, if someone he knew had one four gold medals in any sport, he’d probably snap at anyone who tried to talk shit about them. 

It hits Gerard like a bomb, and he knew he’d have to face this one time or another, but he still hates having to think about it. The girl that Frank likes, it’s the girl who taught him to skate. He’s probably in love with her, who wouldn’t be after she taught him how to _skate_ , the thing that Frank wants to spend the rest of his life doing? He’s probably loved her for years, since he was a kid. Even though he knew Frank was straight, the very thought of him having liked a girl for that long completely squashes all of Gerard’s hopes. There’s no way he’d ever like him, not like there ever was a chance, but he had hope. He had the slightest bit of hope. Now it feels like someone’s ripped it out of his hands.

Gerard frowns, and he disengages himself completely from the conversation that sprouts up, he honestly doesn’t even know what it’s about, and he doesn’t care. It’s like he can’t even hear the other guys talking, his own thoughts are too loud for him to hear over. 

Frank doesn’t like him. Frank can’t like him. Frank’s a hockey player. Hockey players aren’t allowed to be gay, that’s why Gerard quit hockey in the first place, though he’s never admitted it to anyone. He loved hockey. He still does. But the pressure of being a gay hockey player, it ate him alive. He could even think or breathe anymore without being terrified that someone would find out. Someone would learn his dirty little secret, and he’d be run out of the sport in disgrace. So, he beat everyone to the punch. And he has regretted that decision every single second since.

It's stupid though. Even as a coach, he still can’t tell anyone, still afraid of the danger that’ll arise if he does. But even if people did know, Frank’s still straight. Frank’s still a hockey player, he’s still probably a jerk about people being gay. Besides, Frank’s in love with someone else, a girl, and Gerard is just an absolute idiot who actually thought he stood a chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I have to say, I've never had an easier time writing a fic than this one, like this fic is probably the most natural one I've ever written and I'm really happy that people are enjoying it, so thanks so much for reading, it means more than you know.


	8. New Perspective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team fixer.

Frank gets his class schedule by Wednesday night, which means that he’s forced to go to bed early so that he can get ready for his first day of classes the next day, Thursday. He’s been stuck in a lot of the leftover classes because of how late he’s starting the term, so it’s not exactly an ideal schedule. He’s got a class nearly every day at 8:00 which is going to be hell on him if he wants to try to practice figure skating every morning or late at night. He’ll be getting approximately five hours of sleep every night if he maintains his usual sleeping habits. 

He’s also been stuck in a German class, even though Frank has literally no reason at all to ever want to speak German, but literally every other language class was full to the point that he would have had to sit on the floor. Frank doesn’t speak Spanish very well either though, despite having taken it for the past four years. Pretty much the only thing he has retained from the language is the entire script from the movie Meet the Robinsons, because his teacher was a bit of an alcoholic who would often times come into work with a hangover, thus they played a movie every other week and he only had Meet the Robinsons and The Aristocats. To this day, Frank’s never seen the Aristocats in English. He can’t ask for help or ask where the bathroom is, but he sure as hell can say, “Tengo una cabeza grande, y los brazos pequeños.”

Luckily, Frank’s got nearly all of his classes with either Mikey or Ray. Except fucking German. 

He has to spend a fortune in the school bookstore buying his textbooks, because he doesn’t have the time to waste to get them cheaper on eBay. He’s going to need to read about six chapters of about five different textbooks all within the span of about a week. He’s going to fucking die. And that’s without accounting for all the training he’s going to have to do. He’s got a lot of catching up, and it’s going to leave him dead in two weeks flat. He’s honestly not sure how he’s going to make it. 

On Thursday morning, Frank wakes up early, almost as early as he had yesterday. He leaves the dorm and finds himself in the ice rink by 4:45, which is surely going to kill him in a few hours when he’s trying not to fall asleep in English, but Frank cares more about skating than he does about not dying from exhaustion. 

As it had been yesterday, the place is deserted, with the lights all out which makes it the slightest bit creepy. Frank locks the front door behind him, changes quickly and then starts out his practice as fast as he can get his skates on. 

Frank spends about half an hour warming up, doesn’t attempt to make any jumps until he’s sure he’s gotten used to the ice beneath his feet. 

Frank’s got a lot of grace when he’s ice skating, he’s very good at style, but his jumps are imperfect and inconsistent at best. He lands almost all doubles, but things get sketchy when he goes for a triple, and he's never even dreamed of landing a quad. He rarely ever _unsuccessfully_ lands one either. Frank has more than trouble getting that many rotations. He’s also consistently better at toe jumps than he is at edge jumps. To be fair though, Frank’s never had a coach, unless you count his neighbor, but she doesn’t really count. He’s gotten as far as he has in this sport by himself, so he tries not to beat himself up over it. 

But that doesn’t mean Frank doesn’t push himself too the limits every time he’s on the ice. Frank pushes himself to the ends of the earth to do the best that he can at everything he does. He doesn’t necessarily care if he is the best. That’s not what matters to him. Being the best doesn’t interest him. Doing the best that he can possibly do is what really matters. He may not be the best at everything he does, but he always makes sure he does the best he _can_ on everything he does. 

Once he’s got the confidence, Frank goes for a jump, a simple toe loop, only getting one rotation in, because he’s trying to build up to a better one. A minute later he does the same jump, with two rotations, landing it cleanly, which leaves him smiling when he comes out of it. These are two jumps he nearly always lands, but that doesn’t mean he’s not allowed to be proud of himself. 

Frank proceeds like this to a triple, which he trips up on, forcing him to repeat the same jump. It takes him three more tries to land the triple perfectly, but once he does it, he sighs in relief. It’s been way too long since he’s gotten the chance to actually practice. He’s out of shape, not overly so, but he feels like he’s dragging too much of himself around.

Frank forgot how much work it takes to keep in figure skating shape, because it’s a far more harrowing routine than hockey. A hockey physique does not require as much maintenance, because it’s not as strenuous as repeated jumps, not nearly so. Frank makes a note to head to the gym later in the week for a workout, because he can tell he’s going to need it if he’s going to be practicing this much. He feels confident in the fact that he’s going to have access to this rink on a more regular schedule than he’d anticipated, so he’s going to need to give himself the ability to make the best of that opportunity. 

Frank does much the same practice for a little less than two hours. He gradually increases the rotation of the same jump until he gets a double, and then tries, only to fail, for ten minutes trying to turn the jump into a triple. Throughout practice, he only does a triple once, but he goes cascading to the floor anyway. The only one with enough rotations still sends him sprawling, which achieves only making him upset. 

Frank is a little hard on himself. He’s been trying to become proficient at a triple for nearly three years now, and it hasn’t come any easier to him in all that time. He’s sure he’d be able to do it if he had a coach, but that’s not an option for him. There’s nothing he can do if he can’t do it himself. 

One of these days he’ll get there. He’ll make a triple, it’ll be clean. Maybe. 

Frank gets off the ice, grumbling, and changes into the lazy outfit he’d stuffed in his bag before leaving the dorm. Frank’s got about an hour and half until his first class. It’s his first class of both the day and at this school altogether. He finds a seat on one of the benches in the lobby of the rink, and pulls out his chemistry textbook, which is his first class. He’d read three chapters last night, but still has a few more to go to be properly caught up on the reading.

It’s a slow read, of course it is, it’s a chemistry textbook. It doesn’t help that it’s riddled with typos because fucking hell if textbook authors care. Frank’s never come across any textbook, other than English ones, that doesn’t have typos in them, unless they’re over thirty years old.

The doors open, presenting a very disheveled looking Gerard, at about seven. He pays Frank no mind until he unlocks all the doors, and then walks over to Frank, who’s in the middle of highlighting the shit out of his textbook when Gerard says hi.

“Hey Frank,” Gerard says, looking tired. He stops and stands right next to Frank, looking at him, textbook in hand with the rest of his stuff covering the bench. He looks quite at home, though, so Gerard smiles when he sees Frank.

Frank reminds Gerard of himself when he’s in the rink. Gerard knows all too well how it feels to see the ice rink as a second home, and unless Frank is just a weirdo, he must feel the same way. Frank seems a lot more relaxed and comfortable in the rink than he does anywhere else. 

“Hey,” Frank replies, barely looking up.

“You already finished practicing?” Gerard asks him.

“Yeah,” Frank nods, “I got an early start.”

“Jeez, how early did you fucking wake up?” Gerard asks him.

“About four,” he says. 

“Fucking hell,” Gerard says, sounding winded at the mere thought. “How are you not dead?”

Frank shrugs, and then looks up. He sees Gerard is dressed for the weather with a pea coat and scarf, and a Styrofoam cup of coffee in his hands. Frank makes an envious face when he sees Gerard’s coffee, only just now realizing how much he wants one. His bones are tired and he’s already feeling fatigued, which he knows does not bode well for the rest of the day that he’s going to have to endure. 

“Sheer luck,” Frank replies.

“Oh, sorry, I’m disrupting,” Gerard says, looking down at Frank’s textbook. He almost forgot that Frank’s a student. He’s got actual classes to attend and shit to get done. 

“You’re fine,” Frank says, shrugging. He looks at Gerard, really _looks_ at him, for probably the first time since he walked into the rink, and he looks the way Frank feels. He’s got some heavy bags under his eyes and if his slouch is anything to go by, he didn’t get a lot of sleep. He looks an awful lot like Mikey like this, very tired and the slightest bit bored. Frank frowns, at the idea that he’s boring Gerard.

“Yeah, but I’ll go to my office, and let you work,” Gerard says.

“Thanks,” Frank says, smiling at the gesture. Gerard stops, and just sort of stares at Frank for a couple of seconds, before he remembers that he was going to leave Frank alone. He reluctantly walks past him, though if it were up to him, he’d stop and stare at the guy for a few more hours. He’s just that fucking pretty. 

Gerard makes his way to the office, unlocking the door and then closing it again behind him to give Frank the semblance of privacy. Frank’s seated next to one of the ceiling to floor windows, though, so anyone who walks by will be able to see him. 

Once in the office, Gerard leans against the door and takes the time to get the breathing in that he’d forgotten about when he saw Frank. Frank is fucking killing him, he swears it. Every time he sees the guy it’s like he forgets everything he knows. He forgets how to breathe, how to blink. He swears, if his body didn’t pump blood on its own, he’d probably forget how to do that too. 

He doesn’t get _why_ , that’s the problem. Frank isn’t even all that special compared to any of the other guys he’s met. Like, there’s no good reason for why he should be more attracted to Frank than to Pete, or any of the other guys on the team for that matter. It doesn’t make sense. Sure, Frank is a little bit more his type than Pete, but still, he’s known Pete for three years now, he shouldn’t like Frank at all, considering he’s know Frank for only three days. 

And yet, something about that stupid fucking guy makes his heart race. It’s like seeing him gives him chills and also makes him burn up at the same time. He just doesn’t know why. It makes no sense. 

Nothing about him makes sense. Frank’s kind of weird. 

Frank almost doesn’t make sense as a hockey player. If he hadn’t seen him out on the ice, and seen his sheer skill, Gerard might not even believe that Frank was a hockey player at all. Frank’s weird on the ice. He’s very special, he’s not like anyone else. Frank really does skate like a girl, he’s got so much grace and balance, it seems almost improper for the game, but it _works_. He’s got a special way of moving, and somehow, it’s superior to anything Gerard’s ever learned. 

It’s like Frank learned a different sport than Gerard did. He plays it the same way, he knows the same rules, but the way in which he plays it is completely foreign. 

Frank is very feminine, Gerard thinks, and that might be why he seems so different out on the ice. It’s not noticeable femininity either, it’s not the way he looks, or even really the way he acts. It’s how he carries himself. It’s in his gestures, almost. That might even be why Gerard likes him, because he’s just so unapologetically different, and just _peculiar_ , but in a nice way. 

What’s worse is that Mikey can tell. Mikey can always tell. He sees right through Gerard, like Gerard’s a pane of glass. 

Mikey’s the only one on the planet who knows about Gerard, he knows everything other than why Gerard quit hockey. Mikey’s been throwing it in his face the past two days though, every second he gets. Mikey will wink at him whenever he catches Gerard staring at Frank, or he’ll make a face whenever Gerard says something overly flirtatious to Frank. He can tell, and Gerard is honestly trying his best to hide it, but honestly, Frank just sets him on fire, in a good way. 

Mikey keeps offering to get intel on Frank for him. Find out what his interests are and relay them back to Gerard. Gerard said no, but he said it with a wink so as to indicate that he does still want that information, but he doesn’t want to go right out and say it. Mikey had just rolled his eyes in response. 

Mikey’s probably the only person on the entire team who is okay with Gerard’s sexuality. It’s because he’s Gerard’s brother. Were Gerard just some random guy, even Mikey would probably have a problem or two. And how could anyone blame him? A guy who routinely stands in a locker room full of sixteen half naked guys and then proceeds to stare at those same guys for hours on end? Why would any guy be okay with that? 

Of course, Gerard has never taken advantage of his position in that way, not even when Frank was changing, because Gerard is not a fucking pervert, but still. No hockey player would ever be okay with that. Why should they be? 

Frank’s no exception. If Frank knew how Gerard felt, he’d probably have Gerard fired so fast that he wouldn’t have time to say sorry. Frank would hate him if he knew. He’d absolutely detest Gerard. 

Why did Gerard have to fall for a guy on the team? Why couldn’t he have had a clandestine relationship with a guy he met at a Starbucks? Things would have been so much easier. 

Gerard busies himself for what he doesn’t realize is nearly two hours, drawing up different plans for practice games, and also plans that involve putting Frank into more important positions on the ice. He doesn’t realize what time it is until Coach enters the office at around nine.

“Morning, Gerard,” she says, throwing her bag onto the floor next to her desk. Gerard is here a lot longer than Coach is, and he sometimes feels like he does more work, but then he remembers that he knows literally nothing about finances, or booking hotel rooms, or making travel arrangements, or how to give the team a pep talk between periods of a hockey game, or literally anything else that she does. Gerard’s one job is basically just to draw up strategies. He also locks and unlocks the doors. Gerard kind of just polishes everything that Coach does. 

This is Gerard’s third year as an assistant coach, and still they haven’t won anything. Last year he thought that they might brush the very bottom and make it into the NCAA tournament only to lose in the first round, which would still be an achievement for this team considering that they haven’t even gotten that far in eight years, but it hasn’t happened yet. They’re easily the worst team in the region.

Making it into the NCAA tournament isn’t as difficult as it is for other sports. A total of sixteen schools compete in the tournament, four each from the four different regions, out of sixty total Division I hockey teams. Armstrong is a part of the northeast region, but unfortunately, so are some of the best teams in the DI, including Frank’s old school, Boston. To make it into the NCAA tournament, a team can either win an automatic bid by winning one of the six conference championships, or with the remaining ten bids calculated according to their RPI from the season. In other words, either you win a conference, or you’re on average one of the four best teams in the region. 

Once you make it into the regionals, you’re seeded according to your RPI within your region, with four teams in each of those four regions. The number one seed in each region is the best team in that region, number two is the second best, and so on. The number one seed plays the number four seed, while the number two seed plays the number three seed, and the winners of each go on to play each other in the quarterfinals. The winners of the quarterfinals progress into the semifinals, otherwise known as the frozen four, as only four teams remain at that point. In the semifinals, the winning team from one region plays the winning team of another region. Ultimately, the two winning teams of the semifinals face off in the NCAA championship. 

To put in perspective how poorly Armstrong has done, they haven’t been one of the sixteen teams in the tournament in eight years. And they haven’t been one of the four teams in the semifinals in twenty years. And they haven’t won the championship in forty-one years. Basically, their team is pretty shit. 

“Morning,” Gerard responds, and watches Coach put a stack of mail on top of the desk as she throws off her coat.

“You ready for practice tonight?” Coach asks, with a raise of her eyebrow. It’s going to be a long, intensive, tiring practice, because they’ve got their second game of the season tomorrow. Gerard wishes that Frank could play, but he’s not ready yet. Hopefully by next week he’ll be ready to go, but until then, Gerard’s just going to have to ogle him off the ice. He’s definitely less gross when he’s off the ice, not nearly as sweaty, but there’s something super fucking sexy about a boy who owns the ice at every step. Gerard really admires a guy who can beat the shit out of other people at hockey. Watching Frank in action is quite a sight to behold, and it has been known to give Gerard impure thoughts. 

“Sort of,” Gerard shrugs. He’s not excited about practice tonight, that’s for sure. He’s nothing but a pessimist when it comes to the state of the team. He wants to believe that they’re capable of greatness, but that doesn’t mean he _sees_ it.

“Guess what came in the mail?” Coach asks, looking excited as she grabs a parcel and rips it open while Gerard just sits, looking back at her with a shrug. 

When Gerard doesn’t have a guess, she pulls out the jersey inside to show Gerard Frank’s newly printed team jersey. 

“Oh, wow, that was fast,” Gerard says, when he sees the jersey. It looks the same as everyone else’s, green in color, with the big Green Knights logo on the front. On the back, the word ‘Iero’ is printed in big block letters, along with the number 96. Gerard makes a mental note to ask Frank if there’s any special meaning behind the number, as most hockey players have a special reasoning for their number. Gerard’s number had been the year his dad won the tournament, 74. Mikey is number 88, the year The Smashing Pumpkins, which are his favorite band, formed. Pete had to be talked out of wearing the number 69. 

“Oh, now he’ll maybe start to see himself as a part of the team!” Gerard says, excitedly. “Was he still out there when you came in?”

“Frank?” Coach asks. “No, I didn’t see him. Why, was he here?”

“He was,” Gerard nods, “yesterday and today both. He was studying though, by the time I got in this morning. He’d really dedicated, you know. He practices not only when he has to, but in his free time too.”

“There’s something special about that one, that’s for certain,” Coach says, with this knowing little glimmer as she takes a seat at her desk. 

“There is,” Gerard agrees, and then realizes that he and Coach are probably thinking two very different things. While Gerard’s not in the business of pretending that Frank’s a bad hockey player, because that’s certainly not true, his hockey skills are not necessarily the thing that Gerard would use to exemplify what makes him special. Even if he is a damn good player, there’s a one hundred percent chance Gerard would have been attracted to him if he hadn’t been a hockey player.

“Why is here though?” Gerard asks, “I mean, why _him_? Out of all the people?” 

Gerard had been tasked with sorting through a bunch of potentials once Lance got injured. They’d already had a stack prepared in case of something like this, their low numbers on the team made it important that they had a backup plan, and Lance’s injury proved how important that preparation was. Gerard poured over those files, recognizing a good number of the names since he’d helped Coach pick out their new recruits from last year. Frank, however, wasn’t on the top of the list that Gerard gave Coach. Gerard had given Coach a recommendation based on the people he looked at, a guy from Pennsylvania had been his first pick, and he obviously isn’t Frank. Frank didn’t even make it into his top five. So why is Frank. of all people, _Frank_ here?

“He’s…” Coach drifts off, “he’s a team fixer.”

“A what?” Gerard asks.

“A team fixer,” she replies. “I’ve had my eye on him since the middle of his sophomore year in high school. I was absolutely gutted not to get him, but when we gave out all our scholarships last year, I couldn’t convince the schoolboard to give one to Frank. Obviously after Lance’s injury they couldn’t really say no to me, and I knew, right from the get go, who I wanted. Frank fixes teams. He doesn’t know that he’s doing it, or at least it doesn’t seem that way, but he does.

“I went to Jefferson, you know, where Frank attended high school. They weren’t a great team five years ago, not by a long shot, and then suddenly, they picked up, like a snap of the fingers. It was very sudden. You know how huge it is for a team to go from not winning anything to winning finals in the span of two years? Once Frank got there, things turned around. I had my eyes on him because of that. So, when the time came, of course it was going to be him. How could it have been anyone else?”

“What is it about him, then, that picks teams up?” Gerard asks.

“I haven’t a clue,” Coach says, honestly. “But whatever it is, we need it.”

“How do you know it’s him that changed that team, though?” Gerard asks, sounding skeptical. It seems an awful lot to wager, given how many variables there are when it comes to hockey. In high school, it’s one thing to have a great player dominate a team, because that’s just the best guy at the school. In college, you don’t make it on the team unless you are damn fucking good. It’s not a decision based on who attends the same school, it’s a decision that spans the entire country looking for the best players to compete. Putting all your bets on Frank, it just doesn’t seem logical.

The idea that Frank fixed his high school team is not exactly unlikely, but that doesn’t mean he can do the same thing twice. Placing all your bets on his ability to do so isn’t guaranteed to win you anything. 

“You’ve seen him out there on the ice. You’ve seen what he can do, what he’s made of,” Coach says, “You try to tell me it wasn’t him who changed that team. And I dare you to tell me that he can’t do the same for us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am choosing to ignore what day it is today, so instead, I wish you all a very happy Penguin Awareness day!


	9. Weight of the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No tomorrow.

Thursday evening’s practice is longer than what Frank has grown accustomed to. It also doesn’t help that he’s practically dead on his feet by the middle of the afternoon. He’s honestly not entirely sure he’s going to make it through practice without literally falling asleep. He is determined to stay focused, though, because tomorrow is the team’s second game, and even if he isn’t playing, he’s going to give it his all to prove that he’s got what it takes. 

He isn’t as excited about receiving his jersey from Gerard as it is clear that Gerard is expecting him to be. He’s not apathetic about it, because he is excited, he’s thankful to have the proof that he’s part of this team. It’s just been a really long day, and he cannot find it in him to be over the moon about something when he’s honestly trying his hardest not to fall asleep where he stands. 

Frank’s got too many things on his mind, which is never good when he gets out on the ice, because a busy mind means he can’t concentrate on what’s going on around him. He is thinking too much about everything to do with the world _outside_ the ice, so his reactions become far too delayed concerning what’s going on _inside_ the ice. He’s too in his head, he needs to climb down and be here rather than everywhere else, but he can’t talk himself down. 

Frank trips up during practice, an indication as to just how fatigued he really is. He flies to the ground, hitting his arm on the ground pretty hard, but it’s nothing he can’t work through. Pete and Mikey both skate over to him to check that he’s okay, but Frank shakes it off, or at least, he tries to. He can’t help but let it get to him though.

“Shape up, Iero, you look asleep out there!” Gerard yells at him from his position right in front of the bench. Coach is staring at him too, looking disappointed, which is so much worse than angry. Anger he can deal with, anger is fine, but disappointment makes him feel helpless. There’s nothing that you can do to overcome the feelings of others being disappointed in you, even if you give your all, you still have the memory of someone expecting more from you, more that you just can’t deliver. 

Frank’s skills dwindle during practice today. He’s not giving it his all, and he’s not doing his best. It’s because he doesn’t believe in himself at all today. He’s got too many thoughts all at once, and all of them are negative. 

He knows it’s because he’s tired, he’s been awake for over fifteen hours now, it’s bound to get to him, but still, he feels like he should’ve been able to avoid falling flat on his face. He can’t afford to start getting clumsy, he just can’t. He’s got to do the best he can, and if he doesn’t get enough sleep he can’t be that.

Right now, though, he doesn’t know he can possibly be ready for hockey and still attend all of his classes. The two seem mutually exclusive. Either he can get enough sleep and be ready for hockey, or he can go to his classes and be too tired to play by the time he gets to practice. 

He went around to all of his professors today so that he could get a list of everything he needs to get done, and it’s weighing him down like an anchor. He might just drown. 

Frank’s still got an insane number of chapters to read in too many textbooks, and he has assignments to make up, and he has game strategies to memorize, and he needs to work out so that he can get back in shape to figure skate, and he’s got to practice figure skating, and he’s got to practice hockey, and on top of that he’s got his sanity to retain. It’s just too much. It’s too much. He feels like the weight of the world is coming down on him, and he doesn’t have enough of himself to invest in all of the things he needs to do. He just feels overworked, tired, desperate, homesick, and unwanted.

At every turn, people have done their best to disprove that he’s unwanted, but still Frank feels it in his bones, he feels it like a fact. There are so many people who don’t want him here, and so many of those people are on the team. Frank had originally thought that most of the team were on his side, but it turns out most of them aren’t. Pete, Mikey, Ray, Travie, and Brendon are the only ones who actually like him, and the jury is still out on Brendon. The rest of them have made it clear in various ways that the same is not true for them. That’s ten guys, more than half the team, all of whom wish he wasn’t here. 

His professors aren’t cutting him any slack, he’s still got to catch up on every assignment they’ve given out so far, and a month may not seem like a long time, but that’s about three assignments per week, for five classes, times four weeks. And he’s got more chapters to read than he originally anticipated, because he thought there would only be one per week, but some of his professors assign as many as four chapters per week, and Frank just doesn’t know how he’s going to be able to take it all. 

By the time that practice is over, Frank feels like he just might explode from the strain of it all. He can’t even allow himself the mercy of going to bed once he gets back to his dorm, he’s got four essays to write, a case study, upwards of twenty-five textbook chapters to read, and a little over four hundred questions to give full sentence answers to. All while refusing to do anything but the best that he can do. 

“Frank, are you okay?” Pete asks when they get to the locker room after practice, Frank practically dripping from sweat. He’s sure that he could quite literally wring his own hair out if he were to try. He feels gross, weak, tired, and useless. 

“What?” Frank asks, and then he makes an exasperated, and almost pleading sound in response. 

“So, that’s a no?” Pete asks. 

“I’ve just, I’ve got… I’ve got so much to do. I have so much work, and I… I don’t know how I’m ever gonna catch up. And I’ve also got to catch up with the team so that Gerard will let me on the ice, and I just don’t know how I’m going to do it all,” Frank says, and he’s honestly on the verge of crying.

“Oh, man dude,” Pete says, making a face of sympathy that Frank appreciates, but it doesn’t exactly _help_ him.

“I just, I’ve got to do everything all at once, and I don’t know how I can do any one of those things, nevertheless all of them.” 

Pete nods, and he wrinkles his eyebrows, which is how you know he’s deep in thought. Pete always wrinkles his eyebrows together when he’s thinking about something, as Frank’s noticed.

“What classes do you have?” Pete asks, “And what professors?” Frank gives him a rundown of his classes, and the professors he has. Pete gives him a look that actually sparks some amount of hope in Frank.

“Okay, so, I never throw away a notebook, not a single one,” Pete says, “I had three of your five professors, so, I mean, if you need them, I can give you all the chapter and lesson notes I took, and I can also get you some of the other stuff I have from those classes, if it’ll help?” 

“Pete, are you serious?” Frank asks, looking like he’s going to hug him, which he wouldn’t do even if he weren’t sweaty and gross. Hugging is very intimate for a hockey player unless you just won a game, in which case, fuck rules.

“Yeah,” Pete says, “it’s no problem for me to give that stuff to you. I don’t need any of it anymore, really.”

“Really?” 

“Yeah, no problem,” Pete says, “I only wish I still had my old textbooks, because I’m a master highlighter. I’m like, the half-blood prince when it comes to highlighting.”

“Anything you can give me, that’s what I’ll accept,” Frank says.

“Okay, yeah,” Pete nods, “I’ll get it all for you once I change. You should come over to my dorm though, ‘cause it might take me a while to find that shit.” 

“Yeah, definitely!” Frank says, ready to get down on his knees and grovel at Pete’s feet.

Frank changes quickly, quicker than he usually does, because he’s eager to get those notes from Pete, and to get studying them so that he can go to fucking bed. Frank is still sweaty, and he’ll take a shower later, but first he wants those notes. He stinks right now, and he knows it, but the only people he’s going to be near are Pete and Ray, and they’re just going to have to deal with it. 

Once they’ve both changed, Frank follows Pete to his dorm which is a lot further than Frank’s is in relation to the ice rink, but the cold air outside is soothing compared to the heat and sweat from practice. Pete takes him to one of the dorms that’s not as tall, but quite a bid wider than Frank’s, named Barker hall. Pete’s on the first floor, which is a relief, as he hadn’t wanted to climb the stairs, even if it is only four or five stories tall. 

Frank is surprised, when Pete swipes his card to open the front door, to see Morgan and one of his goons following them. He grabs the door after Pete as the two of them walk through, and when Frank turns his head to look at him, Morgan is looking back with his evil, beady eyes. Frank quickly turns his head to look straight ahead of him, and follows Pete down what seems to be a very twisty and convoluted hallway compared to the short and straight one that Frank is used to. 

Morgan has branched off with his goon, but still follows behind them, which makes Frank feel slightly worried. He knows he’s just paranoid, but it’s unsettling being so near to Morgan with no one but Pete around. 

Pete finally comes to a stop in front of a room, which is clearly his as evidenced by the whiteboard on the door that says Neverland, which Frank has come to assume is an obsession of Pete’s. Pete probably fancies himself to be Peter Pan.

Pete opens the door, and Frank turns around to see Morgan entering into a different room, just a few doors down. Frank sighs a little in relief, thankful to escape Morgan. Frank feels slightly bad for Pete though, having to live not only in the same dorm, but in the same hall as Morgan. 

Frank’s got all of the other freshman hockey players on his floor, obviously including Ray, but also Mikey, and Brendon. Apparently, Mikey’s roommate is a lacrosse player, but Frank hasn’t actually met the guy. He doesn’t know much of anything about Brendon other than that he hates Morgan, and that he has psychology with him. 

“It must suck living so close to Morgan,” Frank says, when he enters into Pete’s room.

Pete’s room very much looks like his personality. It’s very, very Pete. There’s barely an inch of wall not covered in posters. Even Ray doesn’t have so many posters. His room is quite a bit larger than Frank’s, because there are two beds, neither of which are lofted. It’s clear which side of the room is Pete’s though, because not only does he have band posters, but he’s got a couple hockey posters too. He’s got the arbitrary Wayne Gretzky, almost the same print that Frank has, and he’s got a couple Blackhawks photos. Frank’s only got Gretzky and Ovechkin, who are arguably his two favorite hockey players of all time, even though neither of them ever actually played for the Devils. 

“Oh, almost all the upperclassman hockey players are on this floor,” Pete says, “him and Garret are roommates, and honestly, both of them are dicks. Garret is almost a bigger dick than he is.”

“Is he on the team too?” Frank asks.

“Yeah,” Pete nods, “he’s that big bulky one with the Smurf nose.”

“Oh,” Frank nods. “How can anyone be a bigger dick than Morgan?”

“He’s just a quieter dick compared to Morgan,” Pete says, “but he hates you just as much. Hates me more than he hates you though, so, there’s that. Call it a consolation prize.”

Pete starts rummaging around his desk, which is a mess to say the least. One side of the room is definitely a little bit cleaner than the other side, but neither is particularly clean. Pete’s is the messy side, with clothes strewn about across the floor, on the bed, and surprisingly, very little in the hamper he’s got set out next to the closet. Pete’s desk has a stack about a mile high of textbooks, and Frank only now remembers that he doesn’t know what Pete is majoring in. 

“What are you studying?” Frank asks, because he has been made aware that small talk is the only thing that prevents long awkward silences. However, Frank is the king of long awkward silences. 

“Political science,” Pete says, and he makes a face to reflect how he feels about it. He seems about as enthusiastic about political science as Frank is about engineering.

“Uh, why, might I ask?” 

“Because I have a mother,” Pete replies, and then Frank nods.

“Oh, gotcha,” he nods. “What do you actually want to do?”

Pete shrugs, “I wanna join a band, probably. I don’t think I really want to do hockey forever.”

“I can’t see myself doing anything but,” Frank says.

“Well, honestly, with your skill, it’s almost an insult if you were to do something other than hockey. Like, can you imagine someone like Beyoncé just _not_ singing? Or Meryl Streep _not_ acting? You’d be robbing the world of something great if you didn’t play hockey. Not to say that you couldn’t do something else, and if you wanted to, that’s just something the world would have to live with, it’s just, it seems an awful waste not to show the world your skills.”

“You weren’t…” Frank starts, “You weren’t on the team when Gerard played, were you?”

“No,” Pete shakes his head, “I’m a junior, he quit before I got here.”

“Okay,” Frank says. 

“I saw him play a couple of times, though,” he replies, which perks Frank’s interests, because that’s all he’d wanted to hear about. 

“How was he?” Frank asks.

“Damn good,” Pete replies. “A shame he left. Never really knew why. But I got to work under him, have done for my entire time at this school. Even though we haven’t won anything, I’ve had a hell of a lot of fun playing. Gerard, he may be a bit of a bitch out there, but he’s a good dude. A really great dude, honestly, one of the best.”

“He said he left because it was too much pressure. Everyone was pressuring him to live up to what his father set up for him, and it made him not like the sport anymore. But he came back anyway.”

“I think a championship win would mean more to him than anyone else on that team,” Pete says. “He may not look it, but he’s desperate. I think he’ll never truly be happy until he coaches our team to victory. I don’t think he can be. Can you imagine being raised on all that? Knowing from birth that his father did something that great, and then having your entire life become a legacy about doing it again? Sometimes I feel bad for him. It must be hell.”

“I didn’t think of it like that,” Frank says. He truly hadn’t. Gerard must be suffocating under something like that. To be raised his entire life being told how amazing a feat his father accomplished, only to make it to college and not be able to do the same? Four years in, still without a trophy to show off? Frank can’t even imagine how hard that is.

Frank doesn’t have anything to prove when he plays hockey, or at least, he didn’t until he came to this school. But until now, he was never proving anything to anyone. He didn’t have a family member to make proud, didn’t have any ulterior motive behind winning other than that he likes the game, and wants it. Of course he wants to win, but it’s never been a pressure before. Mostly, because he’s never really had that much trouble winning. 

Frank’s not arrogant, it’s never been arrogance that makes him win, he’s just _good_. He doesn’t let that go to his head, he wants to keep important things up there rather than fill it with air. 

“Here we go!” Pete says, looking happy when he pulls out a shoe box from under his desk, which has a pile of old notebooks in it. He pulls out a yellow, black, and blue notebook, and then beckons for Frank to take them from him, which he does so, gladly. He knows it’s not going to cut out a lot of his workload, but having someone else’s notes means that he might be able to not die. He’s still going to go through hell and back, and will likely still be completely exhausted for the next three months, but at least he won’t actually kick the bucket. 

“I’ve got a couple folders on my computer with assignments, and some more notes. Obviously, you can’t copy them or anything, but it might help you out having an example or two to go by. I can put those on a flash drive and get them to you tomorrow, if that’s cool?”

“Absolutely!” Frank says, excitedly. “Honestly, everything you can give me will be a big help. Thank you so much for all of this. You’re literally the nicest person ever for giving me this much.”

“No, don’t worry about it,” Pete says, “classes are tough, and that’s when you only gotta do a couple things a week, but you’ve got four weeks to catch up on. Anything I can do to help, just name it. Short of writing a paper for you, I’m here for you. But like, fuck, you need a coffee run at midnight, I’m your man.” 

Pete then asks Frank for his phone, and puts his number in so that Frank can bother him whenever he needs to. Frank is so beyond grateful, he could kiss the boy. And it’s not just because Pete’s pretty, he’s actually so indebted to him that he’d do anything he asked.

“You should probably go, man, you’ve got a lot of studying to do.”

“Yeah,” Frank nods, because he really, truly does. 

“Thank you again,” Frank says, and then just whispers a chorus of “thank you’s” under his breath as he heads for the door. The door opens before Frank can get to it, and he’s met with a familiar face standing on the other side.

“Hey, Frank!” Patrick says, looking surprised, but not unhappy to see Frank there. 

“Hi,” Frank replies. 

“Hey Patrick!” Pete says, excitedly when he sees him, “I was just giving Frank some of my old notes, ‘cause he’s got like a shit ton of work to catch up on.”

“Oh, right,” Patrick says, nodding, “gotta be tough starting the semester so late.”

“Yeah, you could say that,” Frank replies, with a sound at the end of his sentence that says something along the lines of ‘please kill me.’

He hadn’t realized that Pete and Patrick were roommates until now. It makes a lot of sense though, considering that Patrick is apparently Pete’s best friend. 

“Good luck, man,” Patrick says, with the utmost sympathy in his eyes.

“Yeah, you’ll need it,” Pete says.

“Thanks,” Frank says, walking through the door that Patrick leaves ajar for him. 

Patrick watches Frank leave, waiting till he’s gone to close the door behind him. Before Frank goes too far down the hall, Patrick remembers the article and calls over, “Oh, by the way, my article about you goes live tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, okay,” Frank says, nodding, and then feels very weird at the idea of an article about him at this school that he’s attended for three days. It’s weird having an article all to himself.

Frank’s no stranger to having newspaper articles written about him, not by a long shot. On top of being in the school newspaper every week when the team won a game, he was featured in the local news every other week. Occasionally, he’d even be in a statewide newspaper. All that happened when he had been on his team for a while, though. He’d been a figure, almost, but he’d been on his team for three years by the end of that run. It wasn’t weird, or a surprise to anyone to see his name in print.

At Armstrong, though, no one knows who he is. No one is likely to care either. Frank doesn’t imagine many people attend the hockey games at Armstrong, no one wants to attend a game that they know is going to be lost, not when other sports teams who are actually good at their game are probably playing at the same time. The article may even go completely unread, save by two or three students. It’ll be weird for Frank to be in an article that doesn’t display a heading about him winning. It’s just going to be about _him_. Frank isn’t all that interesting. He doesn’t have a lot of substance beyond the surface. He’s a hockey player, and if you scrape off that layer, what you find is more hockey. 

Frank walks back to his dorm in relative quiet. There’s a few groups of people still out and about, but it’s almost ten, so most everyone is in their dorm for the night. Frank won’t get the chance to go to bed quite yet, though, because he really does have a lot of work to get done.

Frank sighs, because he knows he’s going to have to skip an early morning practice tomorrow. He won’t get the chance to do any figure skating, since he’s got another early morning class again tomorrow, and he has studying to do which is sure to take him late into the night. 

He’d been kind of looking forward to seeing Gerard in the morning, it had been a comfort to him even this morning when he didn’t even have enough time to really talk to him. Come to think of it, Frank hasn’t talked almost at all to Gerard today. It feels like a bit of a loss, but there’s nothing to be done of it now.

Frank makes his way through the campus, looking around at the buildings around him, all a plain, boring brick, but he’s growing used to the surroundings. The trees are still a vivid array of colors, and the light of the moon and stars above him, as well as the streetlamps, light them all up in what would be a beautiful painting if Frank had the skill to paint it. 

Frank has lived in, or near enough, to a big city for his entire life, he’s never ever seen a sky quite as clear as the sky here is. This town is not exactly in the middle of nowhere, but it’s not anywhere important either. It is definitively a town, not a city. It’s very small, very quaint, very welcoming. But mostly, it’s so quiet and small, that you can see the stars almost as well as if you were on a camping trip. They’re huge, bright, and there’s so many more than Frank’s ever seen in the city. The lights of the city always drown out the vibrancy of the night sky above, which is a pity, because no words could do the sky justice like this.

It’s something tiny to get worked up over, the night sky. It’s so normal, you see it every day, it shouldn’t be beautiful. It shouldn’t be special. It’s as normal as the sun, literally. But you’re not really living if you don’t take the time to appreciate the sky every now and again. The sky is special, a wonder of the world that can be seen around the globe. It’s easy to take it for granted, but it’s unfair to the beauty of this world. 

Frank looks up at it, until the second he can’t anymore. The minute he steps foot into his dorm, he feels like he’s lost something magnificent, and he really wishes he could look at it some more, but unfortunately, he does have quite a bit of work ahead of him tonight.

He tries not to think about all the work he’s got to do. He had thought he might be able to weasel by with some amount of sanity retained. He also hoped some of his professors might cut him some slack, given how he’s missed four weeks of classes. In high school, they probably would have, but that is not the case here.

Frank is used to having too much to do. He’s very much accustomed to not having a social life, or break time. Frank’s never even watched a movie on Netflix, he’s literally just been too busy. The last movie he saw in theaters was Return of the King. He hasn’t watched TV regularly since Lost ended. That’s how little free time he has.

But now, he is more than overworked. He’s being tortured. He’s got so much to do, he’s got to catch up on everything he loves and doesn’t love. He’s got school to catch up on, hockey, and figure skating. All the while trying to maintain what he supposes are now his friends. He doesn’t know how he’s going to do all of those things at once. 

Right now, his biggest stressor is all of the homework, studying, and reading he needs to get done. His professors were at least somewhat understanding, so he has about a month of leeway on the majority of his assignments, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to get any peace in the next month. Ideally, he’ll have read and caught up on all the readings in the next two weeks, and then he’ll start on the assignments. He can’t very well do homework on a chapter that he hasn’t read yet, though. 

He also needs to spend a lot of extra time in the coming week getting himself ready to play hockey. That’s probably the most pressing thing, even if he does have an Everest of a workload. He needs to be playing in games, he needs to be on the ice during them. He doesn’t have a choice about that. If he doesn’t get on the ice soon, he surely will crumble under the weight of it all. Despite how stressful a game can be, it’s probably the only kind of stress relief that Frank has. He doesn’t get too overwhelmed by the competition, he actually finds games to be the only thing that help him to relax. 

Frank wishes he were playing tomorrow. He’s not looking forward to having to show up to the game and watch his team, in all likelihood, lose. He can’t fathom how painful it’s going to be to have to sit right next to Gerard and watch Gerard’s face as the team he loves gets scored on, again and again. Gerard’s reactions might just kill him.

Frank can’t think about any of that right now, though, he tells himself as he walks down the hall to his room. He has to focus on the here and now, he has to read a psychology textbook like there’s no fucking tomorrow. And when he gets sick of that, he has to read a chemistry textbook like there’s no tomorrow. After that, he has to read an English textbook like there’s no tomorrow. Frank just has to forget about tomorrow entirely. 

Frank’s night has only just begun, he’s sure. He just hopes he gets enough sleep for the insanity that is to become tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment, and thanks for reading!


	10. Not Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank makes a monumental discovery.

Frank finds himself jarred awake way too early in the morning by the sound of Ray’s alarm, which would be a totally gnarly guitar riff under any circumstances other than it being an alarm clock. There’s no way to condition yourself to hate something quite as much as setting it as your alarm. 

“Fucking hell,” Frank says, immediately grabbing a pillow and putting it over his head while Ray turns the alarm off. Frank rolls over, only to feel something sharp and painful digging into his ribcage, so he forces his eyes open to look down and sees a textbook wedged into the blankets. He groans, and realizes that he must have fallen asleep while trying to read it. He can actually remember resting his eyes just for a moment last night, a little break from studying, and now he’s here. 

“Wake up!” Ray says, and throws something at Frank’s bed which lands at his feet, but Frank groans out with irritation anyway. He lifts up what he finds to be a shirt, and then throws it back at Ray, landing it on his head, making Frank throw his fist in the air with pride.

“Eat a dick,” is what Ray has to say in response. 

Frank climbs out of bed, feeling very belittled at the fact that he has to literally climb out of his own goddamn bed. He’s also very reluctant to be awake, and he’s sure he’s going to fall asleep if he doesn’t get some coffee in his system sometime soon. Frank has a knack for being able to fall asleep anywhere, and sometimes, he doesn’t even try to. He can sleep in cars, on the bus, he one time fell asleep in a coffin. It was Halloween, it was a prop coffin, but his mom made fun of him for the next eight years anyway. She still makes fun of him about it. 

Frank has his first class today with Ray, so Frank waits for him when he finishes changing. Frank gets dressed far quicker than Ray, who has managed to get his head stuck in his shirt because he tried to put his head through the sleeve. As soon as Ray does manage to get himself untangled from his shirt, and then of course spends another three minutes having to fix his hair because now it’s all messy, the two of them make their way to their class. They have about ten minutes to kill before the class actually starts, so Frank spends this extra time reading his textbook, of course. He’s still got a lot of reading to go, but now he’s armed with Pete’s notes, which he really hopes are straight from the professor’s lecture, because if they are, he might not even have to take notes, which will be a mercy. 

Sometimes, the world is not on your side, but today, that doesn’t seem to be true. Frank can feel the clouds lifting and the sky above singing when he discovers that the professor’s lecture is almost word-for-word with the notebook Pete had given to him. Frank still underlines, highlights, and adds notes in the margins, but it’s still quite a load off his back.

Friday is the shortest day for Frank, as he only has two classes, which are both in the morning, leaving him free for the rest of the day. Thursday had been hell, as it’s the only day where he has four classes, two of which are two hours long. He had almost died, so it doesn’t help that it was his first day of class, which had given the impression of looming death. Today proves that his school life is not going to be nearly as hard on him as yesterday had been. 

Because of that, Friday is not nearly as harrowing, Frank breezes through the first half of the day quite easily, even though he’s assigned even more work which is awful, but at least he’s got the rest of the day to himself, aside from the game, and then a whole weekend to get caught up. 

After having totally forgotten about it, Frank only remembers the article Patrick wrote about him when Mikey brings it up at lunch. 

“The article Patrick wrote about you was really good. A little inaccurate if you ask me, as he made you out to be some sort of angel, when we all know you’re a bit of a douche,” Mikey says, only to be shoved by Frank, who is really starting to get a hang of the whole male bonding thing, which mostly consists of calling each other names and hitting each other for saying something stupid. 

“I completely forgot about it, actually,” Frank says. 

“Dude,” Mikey says, shaking his head. “An article is literally written about you, and you just don’t fucking read it? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Forgetfulness?” Frank offers, but Mikey just rolls his eyes back at him. Frank’s read a dozen articles about him, one more isn’t something special, not really. He doesn’t really even _want_ to read about himself. Frank gets annoyed by his own existence quite easily, but that’s probably because he lives through it, so he really doesn’t need people telling him about things that he’s done, or telling him who he is. But he does like Patrick, so he’ll support the dudes article even if he has had dozens of them written about him before.

“That is a dumbass move, man,” says Ray. Frank gets that it probably does seem that way, there is an actual article written about him that he hasn’t even read yet, so he isn’t offended.

“I don’t have a physical copy, but it’s all on the school’s site,” Mikey says. Frank nods, and gets out his phone. He ignores Ray and Mikey for a few minutes while he pulls up the article and reads it carefully. 

Patrick makes Frank out to be some sort of Greek hero, which is a little bit of an overstatement if you ask him. It’s a lot of pressure, honestly. Patrick describes him as the savior of his high school team, and the whole article has this grossly optimistic perspective about Frank’s abilities being added to the team, which makes him feel very wary about all the responsibility on his shoulders. Nevertheless, he can’t deny that Patrick’s done a good job on it, and he makes a note to tell him as such when he next sees him. 

Frank starts planning out the rest of the day, even while still sitting with Ray and Mikey in the dining hall. He decides that he’s going to multitask, because he’s got about four hours until the team have their pregame meeting and warmup before the actual game tonight. He settles on going to the gym, where he can read his textbook as well as workout on the treadmill for a little while, so he can kill two bird with one stone. 

After lunch, Frank has Ray point him in the direction of the rec center, which is on the complete opposite side of the campus to the ice rink, but right next to the football field.

Until Frank makes the walk to the rec center, he hadn’t fully realized just how little pride this school has for their hockey team. The ice rink, compared to the football field, is a shack. He has to walk past the football field in order to get to the rec center, and the field has a larger capacity than the rink by at least a couple dozen thousand. Frank would estimate that the hockey rink can only seat about 2,000, whereas the football field can probably seat about 60,000. Much of this can be accredited to the fact that the ice rink is indoors, and hockey stadiums typically have much smaller capacities to begin with, but it’s a small rink even then. Frank has always been kind of jealous at the fact that other sports get so much more attention than hockey, football especially. Football just kind of pisses Frank off. 

The field itself is immaculately kept, and welcoming, much to the contrary of the rink which is old, kind of dingy, with burnt out ceiling lights. Frank doesn’t spend too much time looking down at the football field, because it makes him feel bad when he remembers that this school has an amazing football team, and a shitty hockey team. Armstrong also have a really amazing baseball, gymnastics, soccer, tennis, lacrosse, and volleyball team. But luckily, their hockey team is somehow still better than their basketball team, which is more a judgment of their basketball team than it is of their hockey team. 

When Frank makes it to the rec center, he finds that it is stunning as well, and it’s easily one of the largest buildings that Frank has ever been in. It’s an enormous, and gorgeous, three story building complete with pool, basketball court, a fucking rock climbing wall, and what seems like hundreds of thousands of different types of exercise equipment. There’s also a juice bar which makes Frank’s mouth water a little bit. Frank is a little intimidated to say the least. 

He swipes his badge at the front of the building, and then makes his way through the terrifying building, getting caught up looking around everywhere. Most of the space is open, which is good, because if there were walls everywhere, he’s sure he’d get lost in a heartbeat. 

Frank does his best not to make eye contact with anyone, even though it’s a large enough campus that no one is going to realize he’s new. There are quite a few people working out, or doing various other recreational things, because Frank does walk by a small group of people who are doing Wii bowling, but he decides not to think anything of it. College is weird, so far he’s walked past at least fifty people who are still wearing their pajamas. 

Frank finds the gym, which has a long row of at least ten treadmills, maybe more because Frank’s never been good at math. He finds one for himself, throws his stuff next to it, and then grabs his textbook, and Pete’s notebook, putting them side by side on the top of the treadmill.

Frank spends most of two hours doing literally nothing but that, taking a few breaks to just sit down and of course, continue reading his textbook. The psychology textbook he’s studying is the only one that he doesn’t mind reading too much, as it’s the only one with interesting content. Not to say that Frank enjoys reading it, but it’s the only one that doesn’t put him to sleep. He really couldn’t give less of a shit about litmus paper, but reading about serial killers is kind of fascinating. 

Frank makes it to chapter six, which is nearly all of the reading that he needs to do for the class to get caught up, when he notices that Pete’s chapter notes for this particular chapter are nowhere to be found. Frank puzzles his eyes together, and riffles through the notebook to see if the notes are somewhere else, but he still doesn’t see them. He thinks maybe the pages are stuck together, but that’s not the case either. He groans, realizing that he’s going to have to go talk to Pete about it. He could probably ask Ray too, but the problem is, Frank can’t read Ray’s handwriting. He doesn’t want to be rude about it, but honestly the guy could be writing Arabic and Frank wouldn’t know the difference. Mikey strikes him as the kind of guy who doesn’t write notes, and also doesn’t study the textbook, but still manages to get ninety percent on all of his assignments. He’s just that kind of person.

Luckily, Pete’s dorm is actually fairly close to the rec center, so Frank decides it’s not too much of an inconvenience to go ask him about it. Pete did say that he was free to bother him whenever he wanted.

Frank packs his things together again, and makes his way the short distance to Pete’s dorm. Frank had kept the treadmill on a fairly low speed, so he’s not all that sweaty, but when the cold air outside greets him, he still finds it very pleasant. 

Frank enters the dorm, and then makes his way through the twisted hallways, nearly getting himself lost. He probably would get lost if there weren’t numbers everywhere guiding him through the building. This is the sort of building that it’s clear was once a lot smaller but has since been expanded upon. He can tell because the carpeting is not the same throughout, and the layout definitely doesn’t suggest a lot of forethought. 

At last, Frank sees Pete’s room, with the sign that says Neverland on the door. Frank knocks on the door, but no one responds, and he groans when he hears the music playing from inside. Pete can’t even hear him. He knocks again, waits a minute, and then again. It seems clear that Pete’s not going to open the door, even though Frank is sure he’s inside, because someone is playing music, and for some reason, Patrick doesn’t strike him as an Anthrax fan. 

Frank considers for a moment. Pete could be naked. Frank’s already pretty much seen that, the locker room isn’t that big. Pete could be masturbating. That would be weird though considering its two in the afternoon on a gameday. Pete could be dancing really enthusiastically, and quite embarrassingly. It’s doubtful that that would bother Pete that much. There’s not much else that could go wrong, though, so he shrugs, and he opens the door. 

What Frank sees was not on the list of things he thought he might see when he opened the door. He’d actually say that it’s the last thing in the entire world he would have expected to see on the opposite side of this door. Frank would have been less shocked if he’d opened the door and seen a goat eating a mattress. 

What he instead sees, is Pete, completely clothed, thank god, on his bed, and Patrick’s there too. Except, when Frank opens the door, they’re kissing. Pete is kissing Patrick, and not any of those pansy ass Disney Channel kisses either, like this is what you’d call a full on make out. 

Time seems to slow down for a few moments, as all parties wig the _fuck_ out. Frank, in the span of about two seconds, reconsiders all of his life choices, but mostly his decision to enter this room despite no one having said “come in.” Frank feels like an idiot, and a colossal asshole for just walking in and fucking up everything in his entire world probably.

Pete has a panic attack on top of a seizure on top of a heart attack on top of cardiac arrest. Patrick has a feeling not quite of fear or of embarrassment, but rather of dread and something like disappointment. 

“Fuck!” Frank shouts, and Pete only has a second to react as Frank averts his gaze and tries to rush out of the room, but Pete stops him, leaping from the bed, and pulling Frank into the room by the arm, before he’s slamming the door closed and then standing against it, not giving Frank the opportunity to leave. 

“Frank,” Pete says frantically, looking at him with extreme concern. He’s not angry, but rather something a lot more like terrified. He looks petrified, the same look you’d expect to see in the eyes of a character in a horror movie. Not the kind of look you’d expect a heterosexual to have if they were caught kissing someone, but that’s probably because Pete was kissing a dude and there are different rules for that sort of thing. 

“Pete, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Patrick, I’m so sorry. I knocked, I- the music was loud, you didn’t hear me, I shouldn’t have… I’m so fucking sorry,” he says, averting his eyes for some reason, even though they’re not kissing anymore, and are in fact several feet away from each other now. Patrick’s still on the bed, and Frank is standing right next to Pete in front of the door, wishing with all of his heart that he were anywhere but here right now. Pete turns the volume down on the music, but he doesn’t turn it off, because he’s wary of someone possibly eavesdropping.

“Frank, you can’t tell anyone,” Pete says, hurriedly, intent to get Frank to promise that much because it’s the most important thing in the world for him to promise that. This is a horrifying situation that leaves Pete running through every single scenario in the world, because there are so many different ways this can go. Frank might be an asshole and tell everyone, which would likely force Pete to quit the team. Frank might blackmail him, forcing Pete to pay for Frank’s silence. Frank might disown him but agree to keep his secret. And the least likely of all the routes this may take, Frank might choose to forget he saw anything and continue to treat Pete like a human being. 

Pete tries to get Frank to look at him, but Frank is doing his best not to make eye contact with either of them. Frank glances over at Patrick who’s red as a beet and he looks embarrassed, but not as much terrified as Pete looks. 

“I wouldn’t, I won’t, I’m just, I’m so sorry,” Frank says. Pete thinks that Frank’s words are too good to be true. 

“You have to promise,” Pete says, “Promise you won’t tell. The guys, they wouldn’t understand, I’m captain, I can’t have them looking at me like I’m less because of… well, because of this.”

“It’s fine, I get it, I understand, your secret is safe with me,” Frank assures, and he wants to leave as soon as humanly possible so that he can go wallow away under his blankets and cringe to himself for his sheer _idiocy_. 

“Yeah?” Pete asks, in sheer disbelief. Frank may be lying to him, but his mannerisms do not suggest that. He looks genuinely apologetic, which is the best Pete can hope for in this situation. Really, he’s not angry with Frank, because Pete tends to be a very nonconfrontational person, and he has difficulty putting the blame on anyone, even when they probably deserve it. Frank clearly made a mistake, if you can even call it that, as he did presumably knock like he said he did, and it’s not Frank’s fault that he walked in on the two of them. Pete isn’t angry with him for that, he’s just terrified that his secret is going to leak, because that’s the last thing in the world that he could ever want. 

“Yes,” Frank nods, and then says, “I should leave. I’m sorry, again. Sorry. Fuck, I’m just really, really, sorry.” Frank can’t leave fast enough. Being here only makes him feel further more uncomfortable and embarrassed for his intrusion. He’s such a fucking dumbass. 

Pete nods, he mumbles something like “it’s okay,” but he still looks so fucking scared when Frank makes his way for the door, and Frank hates to leave him like this, so uncertain of Frank keeping his word. Frank just wants to leave the situation, get far away from it.

Little does Pete know just how much Frank empathizes with him. Frank stops in the doorway, turns and then forces himself to make eye contact with Pete. 

“Pete, I-” he starts but his words taper off, He’s almost tempted to tell Pete his own secret. He almost tells Pete that he’s gay, because now he knows he can trust Pete with that knowledge. He won’t tell anyone that, not when Frank knows the same of him. Pete probably won’t even judge him for being gay, because they have that in common.

But Frank doesn’t say that, what he does instead say is, “please don’t be scared, I promise, on my life, on my _mother’s_ life, I won’t tell anyone. I swear it.”

Pete nods, and he looks a little less worried at that, but it doesn’t completely erase his nerves. It’s the best Frank can do. Frank can’t help but put himself in Pete’s shoes, and he knows that he’d be absolutely terrified of someone sharing his own secret if he were Pete. It would keep him awake at night, haunt even his waking moments. Frank doesn’t want to force Pete through that. He wants Pete to understand that he won’t tell anyone, and he wishes there were a way to make it explicitly clear, give Pete an unbreakable promise, but he can’t do that, so he settles for the best that he can do. 

“I’m so sorry, again. So, so sorry,” Frank says, directing his words at Patrick this time, who doesn’t seem eager to say anything at all to him right now. Patrick doesn’t look necessarily mad either, but Frank feels as though both of them should be.

The difference between Patrick and the other two is that Patrick isn’t worried about keeping it a secret. Patrick’s not on the hockey team, though, so he doesn’t have nearly the same stakes in keeping it a secret. No, Patrick isn’t worried about people knowing _he’s_ gay, or technically bisexual, he’s worried about what Pete will do if they know that _he’s_ gay. 

Frank leaves their room, and closes the door behind him, feeling _different_. He hurries away from it, not even wanting to have to think about the discussion Pete and Patrick are probably having now. Frank completely forgets about the notes that he was going to ask Pete for, and instead determines to get far away from here. 

It takes Frank all of about five minutes to realize what this means. Pete’s gay, or at the very least, Pete likes boys. Pete likes boys. _He likes boys_. Pete’s a hockey player. A hockey player who likes boys. This is like discovering a new species. This has never happened before. Or at least, the last time that it did happen, that guy was murdered.

Still, it’s impossible to name a gay hockey player in the NHL, simply because there are none. And there have _never_ been any. Zero. Absolute none. 

Yet here Frank is, walking hastily through the cold weather, ten minutes after finding out that he’s not alone. There’s another gay hockey player out there. The two of them may not be in the NHL, but it’s one of his teammates. A gay hockey player who he plays with every night. 

Frank’s sure that there have to be at least a couple, possibly dozens of gay hockey players in history, but none of them have ever come out publicly. Never. It’s just never happened. Despite the fact that Pete’s not even really out, Frank’s never actually seen any proof that there are gay hockey players. He’s never heard about any, except for a Swedish hockey player who was murdered because he was gay. Honestly, Frank would much rather there weren’t any gay hockey players at all then have to live with the knowledge that the one person who was got killed for it. 

Now Frank’s found a real, flesh and blood guy, someone he’d probably even consider a friend, and he’s gay. It’s monumental, it’s a discovery akin to penicillin or electricity. 

Frank’s never considered what it would be like to think about something like this, because he was sure it would never happen. This is insane. Pete is a real, honest to god hockey player, who’s gay. He can hardly believe it. He’s not even sure he’s not dreaming this. 

Frank is just so astounded, and honestly, pretty damn excited about this all, that he can barely contain his own thoughts. This means so many things to him. It means that he has a potential confidant. _Two_ , even, when he includes Patrick. Pete is an actual human being that Frank knows, who’s a hockey player and likes boys. This is the best news ever. Frank’s still deeply embarrassed about walking in on them, but he’s also so uninhibitedly excited that he’s not the only one, that he almost forgets about it. This is a shot at living for Frank, a tiny little speck of the life he wants. 

Frank’s brain is spiraling, thinking a million thoughts a minute. He’s so busy thinking that he doesn’t even realize where he’s going until he enters the ice rink. He’d thought he was going back to his dorm, but then he looks around and sees that he’s here, instead. He never decided to come here, he just wanted to go home, but he supposes that he did come home, in a way. 

He can hear the sound of a practice going on in the rink, and Frank walks over to look down at the ice to see that the girl’s hockey team is practicing. Frank had almost forgotten that there was a girl’s hockey team, but the trophy case at the front of the rink is a very prominent reminder of them. They’re infinitely better than the men’s team. They’re not the best team in their division, not by a long shot, but they’ve actually won. They’ve only won once, but when you consider that the women’s division is only fifteen years old, that’s a fairly big deal.

The women’s team has a different coach, he can see the balding man looking and shouting praise and critique at his players, a little more politely than Gerard does, but everyone’s got their own coaching techniques. Frank’s walked past the coach’s office every time he’s gone to the locker room, but never actually seen him before. This school doesn’t, however, have a figure skating team, which is almost a relief to Frank. He doesn’t have to think about how much he wants it if he isn’t constantly reminded about it. 

Frank stands at the top of the rows of seats, leaning against a pillar, just watching them practice for five or so minutes. He envies them, they work a lot better together than the men’s team does. 

The girls have one mind, and it’s clear to see. One girl passes a puck to an empty spot where another will be by the time it gets there, a juvenile tactic that the men’s team doesn’t seem to get. They don’t get a lot of things. Civility, for one. 

“Hey, Frank?” Gerard’s voice comes from behind him, and Frank turns to look at him. Gerard’s looking fucking gorgeous as usual, the dick. “What are you doing here? You don’t need to be here for another two hours or so?”

“I, uh,” Frank shrugs, because he honestly doesn’t know why he’s here himself. His feet took him here, he didn’t consciously make the decision. “I just wound up here, kind of by accident.”

“Okay?” Gerard says, noticing the odd look on Frank’s face, “you alright?”

“What?” Frank asks, and then realizes that he must look as conflicted about so many different things as he feels. Then he remembers that he’s not alone, and that there’s a glimmer of hope in Frank’s future. 

Frank knows he’s getting ahead of himself, knows that it’s wishful thinking, but he can’t help but to wonder if the rest of the guys might understand. If it’s not just one of them, but two, maybe they’ll have to. They’ll be forced to accept the two of them, since Frank and Pete are two of the best players on the team, and the team is already low on numbers to begin with. They can’t afford to let go of them. Maybe the guys would grow to be okay with it, it might take a little while, but Frank thinks it’s a possibility.

Of course, Frank doesn’t have plans to tell the team anytime soon. He doesn’t want to risk it. He may never do it at all, but the idea of it, just the very thought of it, makes him feel something warm inside of him. It would be so amazing, probably the best feeling in the entire world, to just be a gay hockey player and have no one care. He doesn’t need constant approval or reassurance, he just wants everyone to not care at all. The same way you don’t care if your friend is straight, Frank wants people to think of him being gay the same way they think of him now with the assumption that he’s straight. Just a normal thing, as normal as the color of your hair. 

Pete shines a ray of hope on Frank. Frank has been completely alone, for eighteen years, he has felt like a complete outcast. He’s felt like he’s the only person in the entire world. He’s the only gay hockey player he’s ever known. Now, it’s like a whole new world has opened up. There’s a world just beyond the horizon, where Frank can see himself actually being accepted by another hockey player for his sexuality. Even if it’s just one person, just Pete, that’s more than Frank will have ever had. No one knows his secret in the entire world, for someone on his own team to know, it sounds like a dream. 

Frank smiles wildly, for the first time since going into Pete’s room, and he says, “You know what, Gerard? I’m absolutely fantastic!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment, they are very much appreciated!


	11. Ups/Downs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank's got a friend.

Frank stands, staring at Gerard for a few moments, not sure what to make of him, or what to say to him. Frank’s honestly on a bit of a high. He’s sure it’s not long to last, but it’s nice anyway. Frank’s not used to feeling this way though. He’s not used to feeling hopeful. He’s got _hope_ , he’s got a lot of it, he always has, but he’s never allowed himself the feeling of actually feeling truly _hopeful_ , not until now. Pete is hope to him now. 

“So how did you wind up here of all places?” Gerard asks, leading Frank back to his office, without much protest as Frank doesn’t have much else to do right now. He knows he should keep studying, but he swears he’ll either keel over or implode if he reads one more sentence from a textbook right now. He needs a break, even though he probably isn’t going to find another time to study today. He still has a whole weekend though. 

“I just, I don’t know, did?” Frank says.

“All roads lead to Rome?” Gerard asks.

“Sort of,” Frank shrugs. 

“Well now that you’re here you might as well look over what I’ve been working on,” Gerard says, opening the door for him, and Frank steps in, feeling a little awkward. It feels kind of weird being in the office of someone who’s technically an authority figure. It’s hard to see Gerard that way, given his personality, and the way he acts, but that’s still technically what he is. 

Coach is sitting at her desk when Frank walks in and she looks up at him, giving him an animated welcome before she says that she’s really got to get back to her work. Frank nods, and allows Gerard to walk him over to his desk, which looks kind of sad compared to hers. There’s not a lot of space in this place though, honestly, they’re probably lucky that they have an office this big. 

Gerard whispers, not wanting to disrupt Coach, “So, I’ve been working on some offensive strategies that we can use as a starting point for practice games. Not much, and they’re a little juvenile, but I based some of these off of what I could find online.”

“Yeah?” Frank asks, taking the papers that Gerard hands him. He wishes he could recognize them, but Frank doesn’t have a very technical brain. He’s always had trouble translating what a paper says to what you’re supposed to do on the ice. 

Gerard leads Frank back out of the office so as not to disrupt Coach, and they make their way over to one of the benches outside, to talk, all the while Gerard trying to explain what the papers he’s showing Frank actually mean. 

“So, we usually have a 2-1-2 plan of attack,” Gerard says, “’Cause, in general, I think it works out best, but for the opposing team, I thought we could tryout 1-4, to see if having a more defensive opposition makes any difference. We can always adapt based on whatever we find out.”

“Oh, man, you’re speaking fucking Cantonese to me, Gerard,” Frank says, shaking his head.

“Oh, sorry,” Gerard replies, blushing. “It’ll make more sense on the ice, I’ll show you later.”

“Alright, sounds good.”

“Yeah, so anyway, I think we should be able to surprise the team if we throw things like this at them,” Gerard says, “probably a stupid thing to hope for, but you know. I’m a wishful thinker at heart.”

“Yeah,” Frank says, and decides to ask Gerard the questions he actually cares about, no offense to Gerard’s planning and technicalities, he just doesn’t really care that much. “So, what’s the game going to be like tonight? I’ve never seen you guys play before, or at least, never a full game. Only ever highlights and what I could find on YouTube. Where do you usually go wrong?”

“Oh, the other teams are always one step ahead of us,” Gerard says. “We’ve got a good bunch of guys. We’ve got great goal scorers, a good defense, some great forwards, but it just isn’t enough. Not when the other guys can predict everything you do. We’re pretty basic. We’re easy to catch off guard because the guys are never thinking ahead of the game. We rely way too much on the dump and chase tactic, you know? But when you send the puck going one way and then have to chase after it, it’s inevitable that the other teams going to take control of it half the time.”

“Yeah, that makes sense. So, we need our guys to like, be ahead of the game. Know where the pucks going to be before it ever even goes anywhere. Sounds good. Who’s usually the best on the ice?” Frank asks.

“Oh, Morgan, without a doubt. Morgan’s our resident right winger, our best goal scorer too. He and Pete work pretty well together, Pete’s center, but Morgan’s been having trouble with whoever we try to put on the left wing.”

“I’m left wing,” Frank says, and Gerard nods.

“Yeah, and hopefully sometime after tomorrow we’ll do a practice game and see how you two work together. Hopefully you’ll be able to set aside your differences for the sake of the game.”

“I’d never let how I feel about someone off the ice effect the way I play,” Frank says. 

“Well, that’s the goal, but Morgan is a dick, you can never predict how you’ll react when he’s out there with you until you’re in that position. Still though, I am hoping to put you on Pete and Morgan’s line. You’ll be our dream team if you guys can work together.”

In hockey, there are six players from each team on the ice, unless one team has a penalty, in which case that team plays with one fewer players until the penalty time runs up. Typically, there are three forward players, two defensemen, and a goaltender. The three forward players are the offensive, and they’re the primary goal scorers, with the defensemen of each team trying to prevent the other team from scoring, and ultimately trying to get the puck out of the defensive zone entirely. Typically, the three forwards try to stay in one particular zone on the ice, hence the need for the forwards to divide themselves as a center, right, and left wing. The three forwards are part of a line, and so are the two defensemen. 

The players who make up a line almost always play together, and usually leave and enter the ice as a unit. Lines, though not absolutely required, are standard. The objective of a line is to have a triangular attack, wherein the three forwards have fairly consistent accessibility to each other, with the main goal of a defensemen to interfere with the lines offense, thus preventing a goal. First-liners are the best line on the team, and so on. Frank’s likely going to be a first-liner, making up a complete line with Pete and Morgan. No matter how many lines the team has, they usually have different purposes, a mainly offensive line of forwards, or a mainly defensive line of forwards. When all players in a line are taken off the ice, this is called a line change. 

“That makes sense. But Morgan and Pete actually work _well_ together? Somehow I find that hard to believe given how much bad blood there is there.”

“They’ve been playing together for two years now, and they’re good at it. Morgan works well with less greedy players. Pete’s a good player, but he’s not a showoff, which is why Morgan and him work well together. Morgan _is_ a showoff. Pete compensates for that.”

“So, what are your biggest strengths, would you say?” Frank asks.

“Well, Pete, honestly. Pete’s probably our most valuable player, not necessarily our best, but the one who we need the most anyway. Pete can pass the puck to anybody, and it’ll always be their fault if they lose control of it. Pete can get you the puck from wherever the hell you are, and since it’ll likely be you and Morgan out there with him, you need to always try to make yourself in a position to score, because Pete’s got your back like nobody else. No matter where you are, Pete can give you the puck. Pete is the best teammate, no matter what the situation. Not necessarily the best player, but the best asset.”

Frank is an overwhelmingly offensive player, who rarely ever even ventures past the blue line into the defensive zone, which separates his side of the rink from the center. The attacking zone is anything past the blue line of the opposing team’s side of the rink. The center is the space between the two blue lines, and it’s neutral. There are some restrictions that penalize a puck being passed and crossing too many lines, which will result in a face-off in the defending zone.

Frank has the most shots in history for his high school’s team, as well as the most goals. A shot is any attempt to make a goal, a goal of course being a puck that passes into the net. A goal is considered a goal if it so much as crosses the goal line, so even if it ricochets out of the net, it’s still a goal. 

From what Frank has seen, Pete is not a shot taker, but is more likely to instead pass the puck to either wing, which is why it’s important to have a strong wing. Pete is good at interception as well, stealing the puck from opposing players. Whenever the pucks control is lost by one team, it’s called a turnover. 

Morgan, unsurprisingly, is best at physically violent techniques, which is called checking. Checking, in general, refers to contact with a player of the opposing team, and checking is always illegal if the player being checked is not in possession of the puck. Only players in possession of the puck, or who were the _last_ to be in possession of the puck, can be legally checked. Checking is the most physical way to steal the puck, and is the most likely to cause injury, which is why some checking is illegal, such as cross checking. There are many different ways to check, most of which involve contact with either the hip, shoulder, or stick. Almost all stick to body checking is illegal, but a shoulder check to another person’s body, or a stick to another player’s stick is not illegal, so long as the player being checked is in possession of the puck. Illegal forms of checking result in penalties, which vary in length, and are usually longer if injury is caused. 

Morgan doesn’t have any trouble practicing his checking on his teammates even in practice. He’s usually nonviolent, but Frank’s seen him give a teammate or two a full-on body check into the wall. Frank would not want to be on the reciprocating end of that, so he’s glad Morgan’s his teammate and not his opposition. Morgan must be a cause of several people’s injuries, but that doesn’t mean it’s entirely ineffective. It makes Frank wonder how Lance got injured. 

Frank is best at scoring goals, that’s probably his number one strength. He’s also a master of the decoy, usually referred to as a deke, which is when you feint one way, but go the other. Frank spends a lot of time watching and mimicking other famous hockey players to get a handle on his own strengths, with Sidney Crosby as a particular inspiration, though not necessarily someone Frank actually roots for. He’s not bad at checking either, but he’s not quite as violent about it as Morgan. Frank’s sure that he’s going to see a fight or two break out between Morgan and other teams because Morgan has some dirty tactics up his sleeve, that aren’t strictly speaking illegal, but not exactly kind either. 

Despite how aggressive Morgan can be, from what Frank’s observed, the only line where he would make any sense is in that one with him and Pete. Pete’s a really good player, and it can’t be said that Morgan isn’t. The team has a lot of potential, a lot of really good guys on their team, but for some reason, they don’t mesh well. 

“So, the game tonight,” Frank says, “what should I expect?”

“Well, it’ll be a rough one. We’re playing Penn State, and they’ve been having a pretty good season so far,” Gerard says, “they’ve won both of their games. We’ve only played one, to be fair, but we lost pretty badly. We lost three to nothing.”

“Yeesh,” Frank says, flinching at the mere thought of it. 

“Yeah,” Gerard says, “but next week we’ll be playing Wisconsin, and we tend to be worse during away games than we are in our own rink. But, they lost their first game, and they’re playing tonight as well, so hopefully we’ll see another lose.”

“When are we gonna be playing Boston, do you know?” Frank asks.

“That’ll be way later in the season,” Gerard says, “I think January. It’d be great if we could beat them, obviously. Show them what they’re missing out on now.”

Frank blushes, because of course he fucking does. Gerard could insult him and Frank would probably be flattered that Gerard so much as paid attention to him. Frank’s got it so fucking bad. He loses his breath sometimes just looking at this boy, he’s that pretty. He’s in some serious trouble if this keeps up.

“You nervous?” Frank asks.

“Yeah,” Gerard says, “it’s hard to pick up if you start a season off poorly. No one has faith in you, least of all yourselves, when you can’t win even one measly game.”

“We’re going to win one. We’re going to win a bunch of them. I can feel it.”

“You have an awful lot of faith in a team that’s shown you nothing but mediocrity.”

“I’m a hopeful person,” Frank says, with a shrug, even though that’s not really the truth. “And, hey, I’ve got a good track record for this sort of thing. Maybe it won’t be this year, Gerard, but I’ll see to it that you win. _We_ win.”

Frank’s never felt the need to win as much as he has since meeting Gerard. Gerard’s own hunger is contagious. The need that Gerard feels for a championship can be felt by the whole team, he’s sure of it. Gerard wants it more than anyone has ever wanted anything. Frank wants to see Gerard’s face when it happens, because there will be a _when_. No ifs are involved.

Frank also wants to see a win for himself, he’s not going to lie. Hockey’s not about winning, certainly not. It’s about the love of the game. But a championship win surely doesn’t hurt. 

“That’s awful sweet of you to say,” Gerard replies, and Frank would swear by the fact that he actually makes Gerard blush. Frank made _Gerard_ blush. Surely, they hand out trophies for that. Not necessarily for making Gerard blush in particular, but for making the guy you like actually blush, there’s just gotta be an award ceremony for that. 

Frank looks up when he can hear the sound of feet coming towards them and he looks up to see that the girls are starting to exit their locker room, having presumably just finished practice. Frank watches them go by, and he can’t tell that Gerard’s eyes are knives at the back of his head. Gerard actually thinks he’s fucking _looking_ at the girls, too blind to understand that Frank can’t look at anyone but him. 

Gerard still thinks that Frank’s in love with a girl who Frank can’t possibly be in love with. Gerard still thinks Frank’s straight. If only there were a way to make Gerard’s feelings go away. He doesn’t think he would want that though. Gerard likes the way he feels. It hurts, longing, it’s one of the worst kinds of pains. There’s nothing quite as bad as wanting something you can’t have. But at the same time, it’s something to _feel_. And when you’ve had your head stuck in something for so long, something as helpless as a championship that it looks like you’re never going to win, feeling something, anything at all, it’s exciting. 

Frank then turns back to see an odd expression on Gerard’s face. He doesn’t understand much of anything about Gerard. Maybe that’s why he likes him so much. 

“Well anyway,” Gerard says, trying to change the subject when he sees Frank looking at him all funny. “I read the article Patrick wrote about you. It was really good.” Gerard also had to stop himself from cutting it out and putting it on his wall underneath the ones about his dad, but he decides that information is best saved for himself. Coach was really excited about it too, though. She says people might start to take the team seriously if they think that Frank might be able to turn it around.

Everyone is getting a little carried away with how much pressure they’re putting on Frank, but luckily, he’s not starting to feel the grunt of it. Yet. 

“Oh, right. I don’t know, he made me out to be a lot more than I am,” Frank shrugs.

“Patrick calls it the way he sees it. I tend to agree with him on most accounts.”

“Really?” Frank asks, feeling honored beyond words, so he doesn’t have anything more to say other than his voice of astonishment.

“Yeah,” Gerard says, “you’re good. You’re something special. You’ve probably heard that a lot in your life. Player like you, you probably never cease to hear it. But that doesn’t make it untrue. Actually, however much you’ve heard it probably only makes the message stronger. The skies the limit for you, Frank, you know that, don’t you?”

“It’s been said,” Frank says, which is a bit of an understatement. It’s quite a hindrance to be told at every turn that you’re one of the best. You would expect it to be a propellant, to make one strive for more because you know you can reach it. It’s more of a weight than it is a motivator, though. When everyone believes so much of you, all the weight in the entire world is on your shoulders to live up to that. Living up to infinite praise is not only hard, but when it keeps on being layered upon, it becomes impossible. You can’t live up to an endless amount of expectations.

Still, Frank has a lot of confidence in himself. He knows that he can only ever be the best that he can be, anymore isn’t possible when you give something your all. And Frank intends to give his all, because it’s all he’s got to give. Hopefully, he’ll be able to live up to what everyone expects of him, but if he doesn’t, at least he did his best, and really, that’s what matters. 

“Who’s your favorite hockey player? And don’t say Gretzky.”

“Um, well, I mean, I’d be lying if I didn’t at least include him, but probably Ovechkin.”

“Ovechkin?” Gerard asks, “he’s not even a Jersey player?”

“No,” Frank says, shaking his head. “I’ll be honest with you, I first liked him because I thought his name was funny. I used to call him Oven Chicken. My mom still does, just to pick on me, she calls him that.”

“That’s kind of adorable, and also makes me want to punch you in the face?” 

“Yeah,” Frank nods, “Well, I mean that was why I originally liked him. Then I actually saw the Capitals play the Devils, and I dunno he just kind of blew me away. He was new back then, so this was about ten years ago, I was probably eight, if that. There’s something about him you know? And it’s not just because he’s like the best fucking goal scorer who’s still active. He’s just fucking good, ya know? Fucking amazing. There’s something about watching him play, oh my god. It’s like watching Jesus walk on water.”

Gerard bites his lip, because sometimes Frank is too irresistible. He has to bite his lip to remind himself that this boy isn’t his. He doesn’t just get to kiss the shit out of him when he’s being cute, though he wishes with all of his heart he could. To be fair, if Gerard were to kiss Frank every time he’s being cute, he’d literally never stop. 

“You’re left wing too, I guess it makes sense why you’d admire him,” Gerard shrugs, trying to be cool. Internally, all he’s thinking about is how much he’d like it if Frank weren’t wearing clothes, but he’s trying to get past that. Gerard is not as strong as he would like to believe he is, however. 

“What were you, when you played?” Frank asks.

“Defenseman,” Gerard says. “Not a very good one, though.”

“That’s not what I hear,” Frank says, shaking his head.

“Well, you’ve heard wrong.”

“You’re just being modest,” Frank says, and seriously, Frank better fucking stop with that or Gerard’s going to fall into a hole and die there. He wants to make out with the boy, but he also wants to punch him in the face half of the time because of the fact that he’s so perfect and yet Gerard can’t have him. He wouldn’t, obviously, because he doesn’t want to damage that beautiful fucking face of his, but it’s a real problem he’s been having. 

“Well, you’ll never be able to prove otherwise,” Gerard says. Frank sighs. He would really love to see Gerard on the ice someday. He can’t even picture it, Gerard’s just so awkward and kind of bumbles around everywhere he goes, which makes it hard to imagine that he was ever a hockey player, let alone one as good as people have been telling him. 

“Alright, whatever you say,” Frank says, teasing him. Frank turns to look at him, after having stared for a little too long at the wall behind him. He can’t help himself from looking at Gerard’s lips for a couple of seconds before realizing what he’s doing. “So, who was your hockey hero growing up?” 

“Oh, Scott Stevens. No question,” Gerard says. 

“I couldn’t put my finger on why, but that makes a lot of sense,” Frank says, in response. Scott Stevens was probably the best player to have ever played for the New Jersey Devils, and they haven’t actually won it since he left. 

“Mikey and I always liked him,” Gerard says, “and you know how it is, whoever your childhood hero is, it’s hard to move on.”

“That would probably explain why I never could get past my Mickey Mouse obsession,” Frank says, and Gerard snorts. Frank wants to die he’s so attracted to this man.

He wishes with all of his heart that Gerard was the gay one, and not Pete. Not that he has anything against Pete, it’s just that Pete’s not Gerard. Also, Pete’s got a boyfriend, so he really shouldn’t be attracted to the guy anyway, but even if he didn’t, Frank still likes Gerard. Gerard is still Gerard, and no matter how much he may will himself not to, it’s always going to be Gerard that he likes. 

He’s not even a week into this school year and he’s already sold his soul to this boy. 

The front doors open a moment later, and standing there is Pete, looking frazzled, and worried and very confused. Frank is surprised to see him, as he’d thought that Pete would hide away in his room until the game tonight, but since he’s standing right there, that’s obviously not the case. 

“Frank!” Pete exclaims when he sets eyes on Frank, who looks to have been his ultimate target in the first place. Frank feels wary, not looking forward to this, even though he knew a conversation like this was inevitable, given what he witnessed not an hour earlier.

“H-hey Pete,” Frank says, feeling uncomfortable. He’s excited to tell Pete his own secret, but he’s also terrified. 

“Can we… talk?” Pete asks, and Frank gets even more nervous by his words than he’d originally expected to feel. Pete’s probably going to guilt Frank into something, probably nothing bad, but Frank’s going to feel like an even bigger asshole than he’d already felt. 

“If it’s about what I think it’s about, there’s no need,” Frank says, choosing his words carefully because Gerard is sitting right there beside him, and Gerard cannot know what it is they’re talking about. Frank gave Pete his word, and he intends to keep it.

“Frank please,” Pete asks, and Frank has trouble saying no to anyone, let alone someone who looks the way Pete does right now. Pete looks like a puppy that’s been left out in the rain. Frank half expects him to start whimpering, or purring or something equally as soul crushing.

“Alright fine,” Frank says standing up. He turns to look at Gerard who looks confused as all hell, and explains, “this is kind of a private matter. I’ll talk to you later, okay, Gerard?” 

“Okay, whatever guys,” Gerard says, shrugging. Gerard’s not jealous. Not at all. That’s why it feels like lead is pumping through his veins and his fingernails are leaving half-moon shaped marks into the palm of his hand. Because he’s _not_ jealous. 

Pete guides them away from Gerard, and then out of the building which is not where Frank would be in an ideal world, but there’s nothing to be done of it now. He’s just an easily cold, tiny little man who wants to date Gerard. 

Frank’s opening sentence is, “Pete, I’ve already forgotten about it, you don’t need to worry.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets, having forgotten how cold it actually was outside until he stepped into it. 

Pete hesitates for a long moment, not saying or doing anything. He just looks around them to see if anyone is near. They’re standing just outside the hockey rink, in the cold air, but there’s no one else around them right now, probably because it’s not a transition time, when people are going every which way to get to their classes. The campus is just quiet and still right now, because even the people who don’t have classes right now are all inside taking advantage of the warmth.

“That’s not exactly what I wanted to talk about. It’s just that… well, I was just… nobody else knows. In the world, no one knows. Not my parents, not anyone. Just you, and Patrick.”

“Oh,” Frank says. That’s two more people than know Frank’s secret though. He’s almost jealous. He wishes he had a boyfriend, he’d give anything for that. Preferably Gerard. He tells himself not to be jealous of Pete, though, because there’s nothing more aggravating than being jealous of someone for being in relationship. It’s a corrosive, overwhelming feeling, not dissimilar to that feeling you get right before you can tell you’re about to fall out of a chair. 

“I just… how uncomfortable with this are you?” Pete asks him.

“With what part?” Frank asks. There are many things he’s uncomfortable with. He doesn’t like being the person who barged in on Pete kissing Patrick. He’s doesn’t like being the only other person in the world who knows. He doesn’t like this conversation. He’s just uncomfortable.

“The whole… gay thing?” Pete asks.

“Oh,” Frank says, and he prefers that question to the others, because that’s the one thing he’s not uncomfortable with. “Not at all.”

“What? Really?”

“Yeah, no, not at all. The gay thing I’m cool with. Totally embarrassing myself by walking in on you two, that’s what I’m uncomfortable with. Being the only one who knows is the other part I’m not so crazy about.”

“So, you don’t mind?” Pete asks. “Sharing a locker room with… with a gay guy?”

“Not really,” Frank shrugs, and it’s the truth. That doesn’t bother him almost at all. Frank’s gay too, but he doesn’t make a habit of checking out half naked guys in the locker room. That’s a total invasion of their privacy and Frank being gay doesn’t automatically make him a pervert as well. 

“You’re serious?” Pete asks, looking completely dumbfounded. 

“Well, is Patrick your boyfriend?” Frank asks, and Pete looks around, worriedly, but there’s no one around to listen in.

“Y-yeah,” Pete nods, “for over two years.”

“Two years?” Frank asks, aghast. That’s a long time to keep a relationship a secret. Frank’s never had any relationships to even keep secret, but that just seems unbelievable. Pete nods, though and Frank has to let that sink in. Pete’s been in a gay relationship for two whole fucking years. And he’s a hockey player. Maybe Frank could have something like that. With who, he doesn’t know, though he’s definitely got an idea, but having a relationship at all, while being a hockey player, that sounds amazing. Not the secretive part, but having any relationship at all is tantalizing. And two whole fucking years. 

“Yeah, since like, the first month of college, really,” Pete says.

“Well,” Frank says, “if he’s your boyfriend than I don’t feel uncomfortable sharing a locker room with you.”

“Really?” Pete asks.

“Yeah,” Frank nods, “and, like, if you didn’t have a boyfriend, I still don’t think I’d be too uncomfortable. I mean, you’ve gotta change too, why should it matter if there are guys there?”

“That’s-” Pete starts, but he can’t find the words to finish his sentence, so instead what he does is just grab Frank and start hugging him, tightly. Frank doesn’t even know how to react, he just goes limp, and lets Pete hug him and he’s never done this before. He’s never hugged anyone besides his parents or relatives. It’s weird. It’s kind of nice though, being hugged by a friend. 

Pete lets go a few moments later and then says, “that’s the best thing I’ve ever heard. I, do you think… do you think that the team would understand if I… if I came out?”

“I don’t know…” Frank says, because that he’s not too sure about. Frank is fine with Pete being gay, considering Frank is himself gay, but he wouldn’t tell his teammates that. Frank’s own sexuality is hidden almost solely because of his teammates, though he can’t tell Pete that without letting the cat out of the bag. For some reason, he doesn’t feel up to it yet. He needs to prepare himself a little bit more before he can tell Pete. He does think that he will eventually tell him, he just doesn’t want to do it right now, that’s all.

“You don’t think they’d understand?” Pete asks.

“I think some of them would,” Frank says, “definitely some of them. But not all of them. Can you just imagine Morgan knowing? You can’t get a perfect bingo. Some of them wouldn’t understand, and then the team would, well, it would fracture. Sides would be made. It would be a bomb thrown into the team.”

Frank’s considered this topic many times himself. He never really stops, come to think of it. There’s definitely no way that the entire team would be okay with it, no way that could ever happen ever. Some of them wouldn’t care, Frank’s sure, he’d probably have at least one or two, but one or two is not enough to make telling them worth it. It’s just not. He can’t pick and choose either, because then, what if he chooses the wrong person to tell and they end up revealing Frank’s secret to everyone? No, the only person he can tell for certain is Pete. Patrick as well, but Patrick’s not a part of the team. 

“Really?” Pete asks.

“I mean, that’s what I would guess,” Frank shrugs, “sorry, I know it’s not what you want to hear, but that’s probably what would happen. I just don’t want, well, I don’t want you to ruin your hockey career over something like this. I get that it’s a big deal, believe me I do, but I don’t think you need to do that yet, not unless you were already considering quitting hockey.”

Pete nods, looking saddened by this, but he can’t deny that Frank makes a point. He’s probably right. What he doesn’t know is that Frank has considered this entire dilemma on countless occasions.

“I don’t want to quit hockey,” Pete says, shaking his head. “But I think you might be right. I just… well, I got my hopes up when you didn’t have a problem with it.”

“I’m not everyone,” Frank says, “I’m only me. You can’t make any bets that the rest of the team would understand.”

“Yeah,” Pete nods, and Frank can tell that he’s still super bummed, which sucks, because he wants to help him out but there’s nothing that he can actually do about it. He wishes he could change the way the world works. Completely fix all the problems that society has. If he could, he’d do it in a heartbeat. Sadly, though, the world is cruel and there’s not much that can be done about it. 

“But Pete, like, I just don’t want you to think the world hates you, okay? Cause like, I don’t, and a lot of people don’t, and just because you can’t tell people, that doesn’t mean you’re wrong or anything,” Frank says. 

Frank’s had several years to contemplate this internally, but he’s come to the conclusion that being gay isn’t wrong. Some people don’t like it, and they don’t understand it, but that doesn’t make it _wrong_. Frank had to unlearn his own stigmas about being gay, but he’s finally comfortable with being gay as a fact about himself. He’s just not comfortable enough to share it with other people. 

“Yeah,” Pete replies, looking like he’s on the verge of tears. Probably because of so many different things. “You’re a really good friend, Frank.”

“I…” Frank starts, but he doesn’t know how to respond to that. No one’s said that to him before, probably because he’s never actually had a real, honest to god, friend before. Pete would probably be the first official one he’s ever had, and that means a lot to him in more ways than one. 

“It’s okay if that’s weird,” Pete says. “We’ve only known each other a few days. But you’re the only one in the world who knows my secret now, so, like, the fact that I actually feel like I can trust you with it, that’s more than I could ask for from someone I’ve known my entire life.”

“Pete, thanks,” Frank says. He neglects to include the part where Pete’s the only person who’s ever called Frank a friend before, because he feels like that might weird the guy out a little bit. Nevertheless, it means a lot to him. 

Frank is really starting to warm up to this school.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment if you can, it means a lot, and thank you so much for reading!


	12. For Scott

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just wait and see.

The afternoon rolls by Frank with ferocious speed. It feels like no time at all has passed since he woke up this morning, but here he sits in the locker room, in full hockey gear, even though he knows he’s not going to get a chance to play. Coach is giving the team one of those pregame pep talks, doing her best to single everyone out to tell them what they need to focus on, while Gerard just stands next to her, looking like he’s only half there, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.

Gerard for some reason has been somewhat distant with Frank ever since they had talked earlier, and for the life of him, Frank can’t tell why. Gerard makes sparring eye contact with a few of the players, mostly his brother. Frank can tell Mikey and Gerard are having one of those telepathic conversations that only family members can have with each other, and he really wishes he knew what the heck it was about. 

Even without words, Mikey manages to say to Gerard, “you’re looking at Frank an awful lot for a guy who supposedly doesn’t like him.”

To which Gerard responds with something like, “shut the fuck up.”

And then Mikey says something like, “I’m literally not even talking.”

Their eye contact ends when Gerard huffs and rolls his eyes, which confuses everyone in the room except Mikey and Frank, who are the only two people in the room privy to the conversation. Everyone else just thinks Gerard’s is really disappointed in some sophomore that Frank doesn’t know the name of. 

Frank isn’t really listening to coach’s pep talk which is supposed to be encouraging, but to him it’s like a lecture on subatomic particles. He literally couldn’t care less.

Frank’s not really a pep talk kind of guy. He’s a kick in the ass kind of guy. He doesn’t really play hockey as well when someone is trying to encourage him, he honestly does better, and feels better afterwards when someone tells him everything that he’s doing wrong. When he knows what he’s doing wrong, he can fix it. And when someone is an asshole about it, he has way more determination in him to do well, because he’s a spiteful little shit who’s out to prove a point. Gerard gets that, he does that in practice. It’s kind of reverse psychology, in a sense. Gerard might just be doing it to exert power and feel like all high and mighty, but whatever his intent, the results follow, or at least they do for Frank.

Frank plays with his hockey stick, thinking about taping it up some more, because the tape job is pretty sketchy, but it’s just a practice stick he’ll be using for another couple of days, and anyway, he’s not going to actually get the chance to play tonight, and he knows that. It’s probably fair though, not to let the new guy on the ice when he’s never even seen the guys play, and has only even known them for like three days now. That doesn’t mean Frank isn’t jealous. 

Frank’s never not played a game before. He’s never sat on the bench for an entire game in his entire life. He sometimes struggles watching a game on the TV or in the stands, because he just feels so tempted to pick up a stick and get on the ice himself. Frank craves it, just watching it. It’s something that he misses _while_ he’s doing it. Frank loves hockey, loves skating, loves being in a game, he loves it all so much, that even while he’s doing it he just wishes that he could do it more. He wishes that he didn’t have to do anything else at all, not school, not homework, not chores, hell, not even eat or sleep. He just wishes that he could be doing hockey all day and all night.

It’s like when you love someone so much that you miss them even while you’re holding them. Frank feels that way about hockey. He can’t imagine ever loving anyone as much as he loves hockey, can’t imagine how it is that other people function in life without it. It just blows his mind that there are some people who just don’t care about hockey, or worse, people who actively dislike it. That’s like hearing someone doesn’t like chocolate. It’s just insane, it’s such a fundamental, enormous thing in Frank’s life that not feeling the same way as he does about it is just completely insane. 

Coach finally wraps up her spiel when she checks the clock to see that they’re running really low on time, not like their fans are going to be let down, considering the fact that there’s like six people out in the stands. 

“Win or lose team, let’s die trying,” Coach says, as her final words before she gets the three-minute warning, and then leaves her players to ask each other questions about strategy or whatever else, leaving the room with a bit of a buzz. Frank doesn’t know who to talk to, so he just sort of drifts off into space until Gerard steps into his line of vision. 

“You nervous?” Gerard asks.

“I’m not going to be on the ice,” Frank says.

“You nervous anyway?” 

“Yeah,” Frank nods.

“Good,” Gerard says, “keep you on your toes, nerves will. If you aren’t scared you’re doing something wrong.”

“I don’t want to see my team get beaten,” Frank says.

“Well maybe when you get to play, you’ll be able to help make sure that we don’t.”

“I should hope so,” Frank nods.

It’s already time to get on the ice, and Frank feels even his bones get nervous. He sort of tunes it out, if he’s being entirely honest, he follows the rest of his team out of the locker room, being the last person on the ice except for Ray who’s right behind him. He takes a moment to size up the crowd, but it’s not a very big one. There’s maybe a couple hundred people in attendance. At Boston, there would usually be at least a couple thousand, at their opening game they reached capacity. 

Frank stands on the blue line, and waits cordially for a girl to sing the national anthem. She’s about Frank’s age, so he imagines she’s probably in choir here at the school. She’s one of those singers who you can just _tell_ thinks they have the voice of Christina Aguilera, but is really just making weird unnecessary throat noises. Frank doesn’t care though, he’s been through this ordeal enough that he’s basically become immune to bad singing. 

She wraps it up, after spending honestly a solid minute longer on the song than is entirely necessary. Frank makes his way over to the bench then, picking out his spot at the end which he’s going to be keeping warm for the next two to three hours.

For the most part, that is _all_ he does. The puck is dropped at the beginning of the game, and then Frank spends a solid half hour feeling embarrassed as his team is scored on.

The announcer takes the time to introduce Frank as the new player on the team when there’s a stoppage of play, Morgan having gotten a penalty for checking a competitor. Frank wouldn’t say he entirely agrees with Morgan’s methods, but his methods aren’t exactly unhelpful. 

Frank does look around the crowd some, though, and he sees Patrick, right up against the glass on the opposite side of the rink. He looks at Patrick for a little while, whose head seems to follow Pete rather than the puck. Frank isn’t jealous of Patrick or Pete, he’s jealous of their relationship in general. Still, he think it’s kind of cute that Patrick is watching his boyfriend.

Now that Frank knows about Pete, he feels like he’s got some sort of power, a power that he would never actually use, but a power nonetheless. If all goes to plan, Pete and Patrick will have the same power that Frank does, but he trusts them not to use that power either. Mutually assured destruction. Besides, Pete’s his friend. 

Frank’s not in the least bit surprised that Patrick is here though, given that he is the writer of the hockey section in the newspaper. There’s going to be an article on this game in the morning whether they win or not. 

Gerard is standing, almost leaning over the board right beside him, but he’s way too focused on the game to so much as give Frank the time of day, and Frank is too, if he’s being honest. He cares more about the game than he does about conversing with Gerard. 

The first period drags along slowly compared to the rest of Frank’s day, but it does finally come to an end, which is a well needed break considering how tired and thirsty some of the guys are looking.

Going into the second period, they’re only behind by one. Frank takes his seat back on the bench where he’d been earlier, after an intermission where he’d just stared at the wall of the locker room feeling bored and nervous. The Green Knights score a goal about halfway through the clock, and then Penn State scores another goal, leaving them two to one. Then, of course, the other team scores again about thirty seconds before the end of the period, which makes Frank whimper to himself. 

You can be slaughtered, but then there’s watching everyone you love die, followed by yourself in the end. Frank thinks he just might keel over to spare himself the embarrassment of wearing the same jersey as the guys who are all out there fucking things up. 

Frank buries his face in his hands when the horn sounds for the end of the period. It’s a relief to at least stop the torture for a little while, though. 

Frank follows Pete into the locker room, who’s sweating buckets, as are most of the other guys. Frank feels like a complete tool being all pristine and dry, considering that literally everyone else is soaked to the bone with their own sweat. Even Pete and Morgan have their hair dripping with sweat, even though they haven’t been getting as much ice time as some of the other guys because they don’t have an entire line. 

“Oh god,” Pete says, sitting down next to Frank and looking like he’s got an elephant on his chest with how hard he’s trying to catch his breath. “Are we being murdered as viciously as it feels like we are?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Frank says.

“Fuck,” Pete says, “I thought that was all in my head.”

“I wish it was,” Frank says. 

“The game’s not over yet, guys,” Gerard says, trying and failing to inflate the team’s spirits as much as he can, even though no one looks like they even want to hear it. Frank eyes Morgan as he drains an entire bottle of water and then looks around for another bottle of water. 

“If God was a merciful person, it would be over,” Mikey says, “to spare us from this embarrassment.”

“Okay, literally, shut the fuck up,” Gerard says, and even an assistant coach probably shouldn’t say that to one of his players, but they’re brothers so no one really blinks twice at it. “Just because we’re behind doesn’t mean we can’t bring it back, guys. We just need to tie it up. We’ll have them in the bag if we can bring this to overtime, and you all know it.” 

“Gerard, your optimism is cute,” Ray says.

“Oh, screw all of you,” Gerard shakes his head. “And I mean that in a loving way, truly. Just try your best… and hope for a miracle.” Gerard’s pep talk fizzles out just like that, and Frank dreads their three-minute warning which comes too soon.

They go into the third period three goals behind, which is a lot of goals to make up for in only twenty minutes, and it’s also pretty much impossible for a team like this against a team like that. 

Nevertheless though, they do score one goal in the first five minutes, only for the following ten minutes to go by with no event, good or bad. 

Frank’s got to hand it to Ray that he is a good goaltender. He’s blocking far more shots than the other team’s goalie, whose job is quite a bit easier than Ray’s. Of course, Ray wouldn’t need to be such a good goaltender if his team could keep the puck on the other fucking side of the rink.

The minute’s tick by until Frank is staring above him at a huge number three. Three minutes left on the clock is not enough time for two goals. It’s possible for a better team than them, but this is the team that they have to work with. 

Frank watches Gerard’s fingers, white as a sheet of paper against the boards as he digs his nails furiously into the wall in anxiety. Frank has never seen such an emotional reaction to hockey before, because even his coach at Boston wasn’t this invested. Gerard’s got so much more to win and to lose than anyone else Frank has ever met.

It becomes clear that as their team is slowly dwindling out of force, their hopes are ebbing away with each passing second. Frank can hardly watch it. If this were a game he was watching on a TV, he’d change the channel right about now, because there’s no hope. 

The clock hits the two-minute mark and that’s when all of Frank’s hopes completely wash away, much like a bathtub being drained of water. Frank can see the gears turning in Gerard’s head, and can tell about a split second beforehand that he’s about to make a rash move. 

“Oh, fuck it,” Gerard exasperates, and he shouts over the board at Ray, gesturing furiously for him to get off the ice. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Frank asks, exasperated.

“Get out there!” Gerard screams at him in response. Hockey is a very fast paced sport, so fast that even the players are sometimes out of the loop as to what’s going on, but you have to take everything head on as if you know what _is_ going on. 

Usually, Frank wouldn’t need someone to tell him to get on the ice, because when you’re part of a line, you know when to change because the line is in charge of changes, not the coaches. It depends on what period of the game you’re in, but there’s a pretty general amount of time that each line spends on the ice. It’s a very short time too, and a line change happens on the fly, meaning that the clock does not stop for players to switch out. It’s all done with lightning quick precision, and both the players on the ice and the players that are changing with them know when the change is going to happen well before it ever even does happen. 

Now, is not the case, as Frank wasn’t actually supposed to get on the ice today. He’s not even part of a line. You don’t send out a player onto the ice who’s not a part of a line, that’s insane, and suicidal.

Frank has about a fraction of a second, probably not even that much time, to figure out exactly what Gerard’s thinking. All decisions in hockey are about that quick, some shorter, because it’s an incredibly fast paced sport, considering how quick the puck is, and how fast a skate is. It’s a lot faster than soccer, which is similar in play, but not in pace. 

There’s only two minutes left on the clock, and they’re down by two goals, which is not an ideal place to be. An empty netter, otherwise known as pulling the goalie, is a last resort made only for situations like this. An empty net is exactly what it sounds like, it’s when the goaltender is taken off of the net and substituted for an extra attacker.

In this case, Frank has either pulled the short straw, or gotten really fucking lucky, because he’s on the ice within no less than a second of thought between Gerard’s words. In hockey, even if you don’t understand what’s going on, you have to fucking roll with it. You either roll with the punches or you get out of the fucking way. 

Frank immediately rushes to the offensive side of the rink, and blocks an opposing player from getting handle of the puck. It only takes a couple of seconds before Frank has possession of the puck, and it’s exhilarating to finally be in a game, since it feels like it’s been forever. He was in a game just last week, but it was an entirely different team which makes it feel like it’s been years.

Frank passes the puck to Pete, who in turn passes it to Morgan, who passes it to the other forward whom Frank doesn’t know well, but he knows is named Trystan. They pass the puck around a few more times, no good shot ever becoming available though, and eventually it gets taken by the other team. The other team tries to bring the play to the empty net on the Green Knight’s side, but Pete intercepts a play, passing control to Morgan again. Frank understands that Morgan is on his side, but he’s somewhat surprised when Morgan passes him the puck. 

The goal isn’t too far, and if you squint, there’s a possible goal there. It’s not a _probable_ goal, but he should take a shot at it anyway. Frank panics, and he passes it to Trystan.

Frank feels like an idiot, practically feels ashamed, at the fact that he panicked. He’s never panicked like that before. He doesn’t know what could possibly have made him panic like that. He wants to curse himself out, but he doesn’t have time for that. There’s only about a minute left on the clock, and he needs to be completely here, not in his own head.

Frank watches as the puck gets intercepted by the other team and a player, number 31, makes his way towards the defending zone. Frank loses his shit, and skates after the guy with intent and an insane amount of skill. Frank manages to backcheck number 31, stealing the puck from him with ease. He swipes the puck back to the other side of the rink and then chases after it. Morgan gets possession, bounces the puck off the board to Pete who passes the puck to Frank, and Frank sees his opening. 

Frank doesn’t think about it, doesn’t allow himself even the amount of time he would need to panic, and he just shoots. It’s kind of a blind shot, grasping at straws, aimed at the general area around the net. Lucky shot or not, though, Frank feels his heart fly up into his throat when the puck flies straight into the net, through the knees of the goaltender. 

He stops and stares in disbelief at the goal, not even entirely sure if it just happened, but Pete is rushing up to him and attacking him in a hug before Frank can even come to terms with what’s happened. That’s the thing about hockey, everything happens so fast that you’ve only got seconds between anything, so you’ve got try to sort things out at about the speed of sound. 

Pete pulls off of him after a second, and the two of them head towards the bench, Morgan and Trystan not long to follow. A goal is an ideal time for a line change, because it’s a stop of play. A hockey shift, which is the time you spend on the ice before being relieved by another line, is usually only about forty seconds to a minute, due to how physically active and draining it is. Frank climbs over the boards and then takes a seat where he’d been earlier, still not entirely sure he just got a goal. It’s one of those numb feeling where he knows he’s feeling something but he’s not entirely sure what. 

They’re still a goal behind, and only forty seconds left on the clock, which means there’s almost no way in hell that they can win, but being down by one is a very different thing to being down by two.

The play continues at the center line a few moments later, after the referee confirms the goal. Frank is patted on the back a few times, he’s not sure by who, he just feels it.

“Frank, I could bloody kiss you right now,” Gerard says, not even taking the time to look at him as he says it, too focused on the game. Frank blushes, even though he knows he’s just saying that because he’s thankful they got a goal. That doesn’t mean Frank isn’t effected by the words. He feels a little giddy. 

Frank thinks to himself that he might honestly be more emotionally thrilled to have Gerard say he could kiss him than getting an actual goal. What the fuck is wrong with him?

Part of him thinks that it’s just because he’s in disbelief. He’s literally never done anything like _that_ before. Sure, he’s made goals, he makes them all the time, during games and during practices. But never has he gotten a goal after spending literally a grand total of a minute and five seconds on the ice. That’s just never happened before. Not to him at least. How is he ever going to live up this in the future?

There’s just twenty seconds left on the clock, and it ticks down quickly. If you were to blink, you’d miss the end of the game, which comes fast and with no other goals to put under the Green Knight’s belt. Frank isn’t surprised, not in the least. Sure, maybe very deep in the back of his mind he had been hoping that they’d score another goal, it’s not like it’s never happened before, but it would be a first for this team. The fastest consecutive goals this team has ever had was twenty-two seconds, and that was back in the nineties. 

Nevertheless, the team all look a lot happier about only being beaten by one, because one goal is about a mountain less than two. The opposing team congratulate themselves, flood onto the ice, while the Green Knights look overwhelmingly dejected. Depressed, but not nearly as depressed as they’d be if they lost by two. 

The arena of people around them look especially somber, which is always the case at home games. Frank can tell that they’d all had a little too much hope after Frank had scored that goal, which for a fan is a bigger deal than for the team itself. For a fan, you get your hopes up, because they’ve scored one goal, why can’t they get another? But when you’re on the team, one goal is pretty much the aim, and you’re happy with that much. Baseless hoping won’t get you any further. 

A lot of faces do look Frank’s way, which he’s definitely not a stranger to, he’s used to being the star of the game. He wouldn’t exactly say he was a star today, but he did have his moment. 

The announcers voice around the entire room is talking about Frank’s goal, which definitely would not be such a topic of conversation if Frank weren’t both the new guy and had only had a minute of ice time. 

With the final score at three to four, Frank feels at least slightly prouder of his team than he would if they’d lost two to four. 

Pete makes his way over to Frank, almost stepping on a few toes to get there. Everyone else starts piling back into the locker room, with their backs slumped downward along with their faces.

“I can’t fucking believe how awesome that goal was!” Pete exasperates when he’s within ear shot, and a few of the players who don’t like Frank so much roll their eyes. Frank chooses to ignore them, and instead focus his attention on Pete. 

“Yeah, it wasn’t too bad,” Frank shrugs.

“Too bad?” Pete asks, “that was fucking awesome!”

“We still lost,” Frank points out.

“Yeah, well, you win some, you lose some. It’s just a game, you know.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Frank says. Frank acknowledges that hockey is just a game, but he doesn’t see it that way. Hockey is his entire life. But at the same time, he understands that it is just a game, and especially singular games are just games. Frank likes winning though. He’s not entirely competitive but he’s also not very used to losing which might explain a few things. 

The team file out through the door, Frank making a sort of grimace at the other team who are still celebrating, even though he’s been that team for most of his life. He’s been the winning team celebrating and skating around the ice. He’s not used to being the one who’s got to walk away in shame. 

Frank, like he does with the pregame pep talk, tunes out the aftergame one too. He’s aware that Coach congratulates him in particular, but he doesn’t care. Frank feels kind of fuzzy and muddled. He’s got a whole mixture of emotions, it feels like a current of heat mixing with cold. 

He doesn’t like losing. This is the first game he’s lost in a while, considering that he hasn’t played since last May when his school’s hockey season finished. Even then, he hadn’t lost a game in about two months. So, it’s been over half a year since Frank lost a hockey game, and it’s not a pleasant feeling. It stings quite a bit more than he remembered. Possibly because he feels like he let Gerard down. This is how Gerard has felt after every game for like a solid five years in a row. That’s gotta fucking hurt. 

When she finishes, Frank starts to peel his clothes off of him. He didn’t play that long, but he really worked up a sweat watching his team get pummeled. It’s quite a harrowing experience.

“I cannot get over that goal, Frank,” Pete says, shaking his head. “That was insane. Your first minute on the team and you’ve already got a goal. You’re going to be our secret weapon! Well, maybe not so secret if you play like that, but you know what I mean.”

“They knew they were winning, their defenses were down, that’s all,” Frank says, being all humble and embarrassed because he doesn’t know how he feels about the goal. 

He actually thinks he might be more anxious than proud, because now, everyone’s going to come to expect so much from him. He made a goal in his first minute on the ice, how is the team going to react when he can’t replicate that? He’s gotten goals that quickly before, but never the first goal he’s ever made on a team. Frank’s only ever been on three teams unless you count his peewee team which he does not. He did once get a goal less than thirty seconds into the game, but that was a long time ago and his team actually did lose that game. 

“Don’t sell yourself short, dude,” Pete says, “that was fucking awesome. Even Morgan will admit it.”

Frank makes a skeptical face and he peers over at Morgan who’s got his face in a snarl, and doesn’t look happy to have words put in his mouth.

“Beginners luck,” Morgan says.

Frank would love to let it go and just move on, because really, he doesn’t want to sell himself up too high for him to achieve, but on the other hand, he just really fucking hates Morgan. 

“I have been playing hockey for like fifteen years. I wouldn’t exactly call it _beginners_ luck,” Frank snaps back. 

“Is that what you call what you were doing out there? Hockey?” Morgan retorts, and Frank’s eyes narrow, and his nose wrinkles a little too, the universal sign for ‘I fucking hate you.’

Pete steps between the two of them, both figuratively and literally and says, “so what’s your take on that time that the entire basketball team decided to alienate Troy for auditioning for a musical? Pretty fucked up, right?” Because that’s just Pete’s personality. 

“What?” Frank asks.

“Just that whole number, Status Quo, that’s a pretty whack song.”

“Pete, you’re such a special snowflake,” Mikey says from behind him and Pete turns back to give him this big toothy grin that honestly describes his personality perfectly. 

“I think the musical was a metaphor,” Pete says. “A metaphor for masculinity and femininity. Troy was a figure meant to demonstrate the fluidity between the two, and his teammates were a metaphor for assholes.”

Frank nods, and then just shakes his head. He’s awfully happy to have someone like Pete in his life, who is just so very much who he is. 

Frank finishes changing into his street clothes, and decides to leave the locker room as quick as he can. It’s not that he doesn’t want to hang and chat with Pete for a little while longer, because he does, he just wants to get away from Morgan. Morgan scares him. It’s in his eyebrows. His eyebrows scream Disney villain to him. 

Gerard happens to be standing outside of the locker room when Frank leaves. He’s doing that thing where he’s pretending to be texting on his phone but it’s clear he’s actually not. Frank doesn’t say anything, because when someone is pretending to do something, you pretend to go along with it to spare you both from embarrassment. 

“Hey, Frank!” Gerard says, looking up animatedly and putting his phone away at the sight of him. It seems an awful lot like Gerard had been waiting for him. Probably because Gerard had been waiting for him. 

“Hi,” Frank says, and he tries not to look at Gerard because looking at Gerard is like looking at the sun or at Chip Skylark’s mouth. He’s just so bright. 

“That was a really great game today, don’t you think?”

“I mean, it was alright, I guess.”

“You know, you played amazingly well,” Gerard says, and he starts to walk with Frank whose headed towards the door. The team didn’t win so there’s no reason to celebrate, so Frank’s just going to go back to his dorm and eat an entire bag of Doritos. 

“I was only out there for like a minute,” Frank says.

“I know,” Gerard nods, “And it was the best minute in the whole game.”

“We still lost.”

“By one point,” Gerard says, and he opens the door for Frank, who walks through it, being hit in the face with the cold air which came about all too suddenly. It hints at the inevitability of winter which is just around the corner. 

“Which is still a loss,” Frank replies.

“You don’t lose a lot, do you?”

“Not particularly.”

“Lucky bastard,” Gerard laughs. “Maybe your luck will rub off on the guys.”

“Why did you let me out there, by the way? You said you didn’t want me out there until I assimilated into the team.”

“I did say that,” Gerard nods.

“So then why did you let me play?”

“Because we had nothing to lose at that point,” Gerard shrugs. “You handled it well. Didn’t question me or anything, you just went out there. You are very good under pressure, that’s an admirable thing.”

“Hockey moves at the speed of light,” Frank shrugs, “You gotta be prepared for anything.”

“You’re fucking amazing, you know that?” Gerard says, looking at Frank and actually looking ecstatic to be doing so. Gerard actually feels excited to be in his presence. It’s like he’s in the company of a celebrity. He’s sure that he technically is, Frank’s just not one _yet_. But in like five years, he’ll be in the NHL and that’ll be that. 

Every time Gerard sees Frank it’s like watching a slow-motion movie scene where someone is running and the sunlight is on their face, and their wind is blowing. Kind of like Baywatch only with a splash of Dirty Dancing. Gerard just really likes Frank’s face. And his personality. Gerard likes _Frank_.

“You never seem to stop saying that to me,” Frank says, blushing, but it’s cold out so he thinks that the weather covers that up. 

“Well what does that tell you?” Gerard says, and Frank could swear that if he were a girl, that would be flirting. Even though he’s not a girl, that’s still clearly flirting, like you can’t get past that. If only Frank wasn’t a fucking idiot.

“Oh boy, it’s going to be a long four years,” Frank sighs, mostly to himself, but Gerard laughs at his words anyway. 

“But we’re finally going to turn this crap team around,” Gerard says, grinning. “Just you wait, Frank. Just you wait and see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So last week, my uncle, the man who inspired much of this fic, and taught me everything I know about hockey, passed away. He was one of the best men that I ever knew and I miss him so much. I don't mean to be a downer on this chapter, I just really miss him and this fic would not exist without him.


	13. Sharing the Burden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank tells his secret.

The morning after the game, Frank sees a picture of his face on the front page of the sports section in the school newspaper, and it’s a little disconcerting. It’s not blown up, he’s wearing his helmet so you can’t even really see him, but it’s alarming being in the paper so quick again after the game. He had expected for a little time to go by before seeing himself again. 

The article is just fluff, with the purpose of it being to state that Frank’s goal last night was a historical one for the school. Even though they didn’t win the game, Frank has one of the fastest goals in the school’s history, and to top it off, he’d only played a minute of the game. 

Frank smiles when he sees Patrick’s name attached to the article, though. He supposes that he could do far worse. Patrick is a good guy, a really good guy, so Frank’s happy that Patrick got a story out of the game, and an exciting one at that. It’s not much, but it’s still something that is pretty newsworthy, if Frank’s being honest. He wishes they’d won the game, though. There would have been a lot more to write about then.

Frank’s weekend passes by very monotonously. He reads textbooks, he writes an essay or two, he reads more textbooks, he goes through a few dozen questions, and he reads more textbooks. He doesn’t leave his dorm for any reason other than to find a new location in which to do his textbook reading. He does go to some interesting places, though. He reads his textbook in the rec center, reads it in the lounge of his dorm, reads it upside down on a couch, reads it in the library, reads it at the ice rink for a while. 

At one point, Gerard stops and just stares at Frank, buried in a textbook in one of the uncomfortable seats at the rink. He doesn’t say anything to him, he just watches Frank, highlighter in hand, reading. He doesn’t mean to stare, he just finds Frank kind of peculiar but in a charming sort of way. 

Frank puts his hand on his chin when he’s concentrating hard, Gerard’s noticed. It’s a nervous habit of his. He sort of rubs from his neck to his chin, as if there were stubble there, but he’s as hairless as a newborn. It’s kind of adorable though, the things Frank does when he thinks that no one is watching. His defaults are interesting. His resting face is one of bemusement, like he’s always curious or interested in something or other. 

Once one week turns into the next, Frank feels like someone has put his life on fast forward. All he feels is the days going by, one by one. 

Eventually, Friday comes, Frank feels as though it can’t come fast enough. Gerard’s finally given him permission to play, and Frank is not going to waste the opportunity. Frank has officially been assigned to the same line as Morgan and Pete, and the three of them are starting to form a cohesive strategy. They work well together. Damn well together, in fact.

Off the ice, Morgan and Frank are still not the best of pals. The rest of the team are all starting to turn on Frank too, and he can’t tell why. Morgan’s one of those guys that is scary enough that people will claim to be on his side even if they’re not, because they’re a little bit afraid that he’ll stab them in their sleep. He’s the kind of guy who would joke about killing people, but you aren’t sure if it’s really a joke or not. He’d probably kill a guy for a Gatorade. 

Frank is excited when Friday comes, though, as he boards an airplane with the rest of the guys. They’ll drive most places when they have an away game, but Wisconsin is practically the other side of the planet. It’d take a good fifteen hours or so to get there by car, at the very least. Not really a day trip. It’s one of the only games they’re playing this season that will require a flight, though.

Frank doesn’t mind it so much, he’s not super against flying, and it’s not a long flight. It’s about an hour and a half. Frank sits next to Travie and Gerard, and Gerard is not so much of a flight person. 

Gerard looks wigged as fuck, and he tells Frank that he would usually take something for his nerves when flying, but the game is tonight and he’s not sure it’d wear off soon enough. His knuckles are white as they grasp firmly to the arm rest which he keeps stealing from Frank. 

“Well, at least if we die, it’d make headlines,” Travie says. “Patrick would write a damn good piece about it if he weren’t, ya know, on the same flight.”

Patrick sits across the aisle from them, with Pete and Mikey. Patrick is the only person not on the team whose coming with them to the game. Patrick’s the guy who writes the newspaper, it’d be hard for him to write about the game if he’s not there, especially considering that it’s not televised. 

“Would you, I don’t know, maybe considering shutting the fuck up?” Gerard asks him, glaring at Travie from his aisle seat. He’d just about had a panic attack when Frank asked if he wanted to sit by the window. Frank’s not much of a window person either, but he hates sitting in the middle, he feels like a sandwich. Quite conveniently though, Travie smells really nice. Gerard, not so much. Gerard smells like he needs to do laundry. 

“I’m just saying,” Travie shrugs. “I’d read that story. ‘Entire hockey team dies in tragic plane crash.’ What a headline.”

“Fuck off,” Gerard groans, closing his eyes, and Frank sort of laughs back at him. 

Gerard does not have a happy time when the plane starts to descend once they reach the airport. Honestly, Frank’s a little worried he’s going to puke.

Frank is sure that Gerard doesn’t realize it when it happens, but he instinctually grabs for Frank’s hand as they start to decrease in altitude. Frank’s surprised by it, all the more surprised because his ears just popped and he was trying to deal with that, but then Gerard’s holding his hand and he forgets everything.

Frank literally forgets everything that he has ever known ever about anything. It’s like when someone asks you to name something and then your mind just goes completely blank and you can’t name anything. Except it’s Frank’s entire brain. He doesn’t know anything. He cannot, for the life of him, remember the name of a single one of any of the teachers or professors he has ever had. He can’t name his favorite book. The name of his favorite band is on the tip of his tongue, but it’s staying there and won’t reach his brain. Everything is lost. Hell, Frank can’t remember his own mothers first name. 

Frank just looks down at Gerard’s hand, and then at Gerard, whose eyes are clamped shut and he seems to be trying to find his happy place but he’s failing miserably. He clearly doesn’t even know that he’s holding Frank hand, because if he did, he’d snap it away from Frank like he would if he touched a stove. 

There’s at least two minutes of complete silence, the silence disrupting the buzz of voices around the plane, but Frank hears none of it. All he hears is his own internal monologue which is periodically transitioning between “AAAAHHHH” and “oh my god,” oddly in Bob Belcher’s voice. 

Usually people are relieved when the plane touches the ground, but all Frank can think is that he wishes it could last forever. Eventually, all good things must come to an end. 

The plane hits the ground cleanly, and Gerard’s eyes jump open when it does. He looks down for about a fifth of a second before realizing he’s holding Frank’s hand, and then his eyes say it all. He rips his hand from Frank’s, turns bright fucking pink, and then looks anywhere but at Frank. 

“You okay?” Frank asks after clearing his voice. It comes out a little pitchy, like an adolescent teenage boy experiencing puberty, but he tries to play it cool by turning a slightly less vibrant shade of pink than Gerard. 

“Good, good, fine. I just… I hate planes,” Gerard replies.

“I can see that.”

“Sorry,” Gerard responds. 

“It’s fine,” Frank lies. It’s not fine. It’s not fine at all. It’s a big fucking deal. Frank’s heart just started stuttering like mad, and now he’s not sure what to do with his life. All because a boy he likes touched his fucking hand. Frank’s absolutely insane. 

The next hour or two are fairly fuzzy, he’s kind of drifting in and out of consciousness. The team make it to their hotel, a rather dumpy one at that. It’s not quite a pay by the hour, but it’s only a prong above. The sheets are slightly yellower than any sheets you would ever want to actually sleep in. 

Frank’s assigned to the same room as Ray, not that that surprises him. They’re roommates after all, of course he’d be with Ray. Pete and Patrick are sharing a room, and Frank raises an eyebrow at Pete when Coach hands him his keycard, to which Pete blushes a little bit. 

They don’t have any time to settle in however, as they only have enough time to throw their overnight bags into the room before they’re all making their way back to the lobby and getting ready to get to the school. The game starts in three hours, which just means that they’ll be spending a lot of that time sitting in the locker room feeling dread about the game to come. 

Wisconsin’s ice rink, it is safe to say, is a little bit nicer. And when the words “a little bit” are used, that of course means that it is quite possibly one of the nicest ice rinks in the entire world. The ice rink at Armstrong, which has been lovingly dubbed as Hell by the student population, has a capacity of 2,000, whereas Wisconsin’s stadium, and it is by every means a stadium, has about 15,000. So, it’s like, a _little_ bit bigger. Frank feels kind of shitty when he actually gets to see it though, because he’s very small, and it is very big. 

The team waste time before the game begins, finally get their chance to do their warmup, and the crowd is thin when they hit the ice. It’s definitely going to fill up more when the game actually starts, but already there’s probably about the same number of people just for the warmup as there were for the actual game at Armstrong. Then again, Wisconsin has a better team so more people actually want to see them play.

“This one’s going to be a doozy,” Frank says in passing to Ray. 

Pete comes up from behind him, Frank hadn’t even known he was there, to say, “but at least we actually have a shot at winning, now that you’re here.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Frank groans, jabbing Pete in the ribs with his stick, but in a friendly kind of way. In the way that he has learned is meant as a sign of endearment for your friends. 

Despite Pete’s optimism, they lose the game. Quite enormously. They lose by three whole goals. They don’t even make a single goal the entire game, though it’s not for a lack of trying. The other team is just better. Frank is trying his hardest, really, but it seems like he just can’t catch a break. Whatever he does, it’s not good enough.

Frank’s never felt so out of place in hockey skates before. He’s never felt outmatched. Frank has never, in his entire hockey career, felt like he’s played a team that was hands down better than him. He’s felt that he’s played teams that were worse than him, teams that were about the same as him, but never a team that was just all around better. Wisconsin just completely tramples them. They never even stood a chance. It’s a miserable, helpless, embarrassing loss. 

It’s also quite a hit to Frank’s ego. Frank is used to being the best, used to being the best guy out there, but today proves that he has some competition. His team, or at least some of his team, is genuinely trying, and it’s almost enough but at the last second it proves to be just too little. 

Frank doesn’t like the feeling of being overpowered, and outmatched. It’s not a good feeling. Last week, he’d only gotten to play a minute, so he never got the chance to feel like it was _his_ skills that were being out-maneuvered, but now it feels like a direct blow, right to his stomach. 

Frank gets off the ice at the end of the game feeling pathetic. He feels really little, tiny, like a little kid after losing a game. It’s not a good feeling, and it’s one that he’s determined not to feel again if he can help it. 

Even when he did get beaten in high school it didn’t feel this bad. That was high school though, high school is a whole lot less official and important than college. High school hockey is a pastime, it’s a night out. College hockey is a big fucking deal. It’s exclusive, very hard to get onto a team unless you’re good enough. It’s a lot more strenuous, the competition is much fiercer, and there’s a whole hell of a lot more at stake.

In high school hockey, if you make it to the final game, which, if you’re lucky, is statewide, all you get is maybe some local TV coverage, maybe a byline after the weather report on the local station the next morning. It’s nothing big.

If you make it to so much as the final sixteen teams in college hockey, it’s huge. If you make it to the frozen four, fucking hell, you’re practically a celebrity. Now, if you win, you are guaranteed to have someone in the NHL glance at you. You may not get scouted, you’re more likely not to than you are to get scouted, but someone important might actually know you name. Someone like Gretzky might actually recognize your existence. College hockey is a big fucking deal. It may not be the NHL, and the NCAA tournament may not be the Stanley Cup, but it sure as hell is the road to get there.

It is safe to say that Frank has a lot of trouble getting to sleep that night. It’s not just because of the nasty ass sheets, or the really disgusting sewer smell that’s coming from the shower. Both of those things are contributing factors, and so is what Frank thinks must be Pete’s snoring from the room adjacent to theirs, because apparently, the walls are paper thin. Mostly, Frank just can’t but help feeling like a failure. They’re three whole games into the season, and so far, they have lost every single one. It’s a bit of a downer. 

That depression drags into Frank’s weekend. On Saturday, Frank has actually gotten almost all of the backlog of his work done. He’s read all the chapters, he might have skimmed his chemistry textbook if he’s being honest, but he got the gist of it. He’s done several essays, learned an awful lot about Kenneth Bianchi, which is information that he honestly didn’t need in his life, but he’s slogging along at the very least. 

At least by Saturday, he feels like he can actually give himself a break. It’s just a little break, nothing much, but he decides that he’s going to actually do something tonight. He’s ready to have the social life that he’s been putting off having for the past eighteen years. 

Frank makes his way over to Pete’s dorm, a route where he’s pretty much carved a path to in the sidewalk. He seems to be visiting Pete almost every day for something or other, Pete’s actually really helpful when it comes to studying, he’s good at explaining things. He’s both street smart and book smart, but you wouldn’t be able to tell unless you dig past the surface, which is a dopey one. 

When Frank makes it to the dorm, he knocks, having learned his lesson after last time. A voice says “come in” and when Frank opens the door, he sees Patrick, sitting against the wall on his bed, reading a book, and not a textbook, which makes Frank a little jealous because he hasn’t found the free time to read an actual book since like sophomore year of high school.

“Hey, Frank. How’s it going?” Patrick asks. 

“Eh,” Frank shrugs, “Could be better. The game last night sucked.”

Patrick nods, in agreement. The whole team had been fairly quiet and dejected on the plane this morning, no one really had much to say after last night’s defeat. Patrick managed to kick out a piece about it that was hopeful, but the hope was clearly misplaced. He’s trying his best. Honestly, trying to make this team look like anything other than what it is, _shit_ , is a hard job. 

“Yeah, man. It sucks, but you tried your hardest out there.”

“I know I did,” Frank says, “not sure about the rest of the team, though.”

Frank had definitely felt like he’d been alone out there yesterday. He was playing pretty much as hard as he could, but the rest of the team was not giving it the same all that he had been giving it. Morgan definitely gave it his all, that certainly cannot be denied, because he may be a dick but he’s a dick who does really love the team. Some of the other guys, however, did not follow in Morgan’s lead. Mikey especially seemed to really drain himself by only the second period, which was a bit of a bummer, because it was on his shift that two of the other team’s three goals passed the net. They probably got themselves down before the game even begun, which is another huge flaw with the team.

The team need some work, some oil around the rusty bits, but what would really help was if they actually had morale. They seem to have lost it a long time ago, and that’s one of the biggest barriers in the way of their winning anything. They can’t win a game that they refuse to try their hardest on. That’s one thing Frank’s been meaning to talk to Gerard about. 

“We’ll get there,” Patrick says, looking uncertain, as he shrugs. 

“I’d love to see that, but until the day comes, I can’t quite believe it.”

Patrick frowns and then sets his book down, looking back at Frank, “did you come here for something?”

“I was wondering if Pete was doing anything tonight,” Frank says, “I need a serious break from studying.” Frank’s spent every single day of the past week just slaving away, getting very little sleep, doing way too much work, and putting way too much effort into even the little things. Frank’s a perfectionist, he always has been, but what’s the point of doing anything if you don’t give it your all? You might as well not do it at all if you’re going to half ass something. 

“Uh, Pete went to the gym a little while ago,” Patrick says, then checks the clock, “he should be getting back soon. I don’t think he’s doing anything tonight. You can wait here if you want, though, he usually comes back around now.”

“Yeah?” Frank asks, and he shrugs, accepting Patrick’s invitation. Patrick invites him with a gesture of his hand for Frank to sit at the desk which Frank knows to be Patrick’s. Frank does sit, and then he brings his hands together, and looks around the room for something to talk about.

Frank looks at some of the books on Patrick’s desk, and he notes the ones he’s read. There’s some Oscar Wilde, quite a few classics, but also a lot of science fiction. Patrick must be an H.G. Wells fan if his multiple different copies of The Time Machine are any indication. 

Frank is struck with an idea, not because of any particular thing, but because his brain is playing leap frog. 

Frank still hasn’t told either Pete or Patrick about his own secret. He hasn’t come out to anyone, not a soul. Here he has Patrick now, all alone, and this is a prime opportunity for him to let somebody know. 

Frank thinks on it for a few minutes, and he comes up with fewer cons than pros. Thinking analytically doesn’t do much to quell his emotions, though, so he has a thought or two about how he would feel about it if Patrick were to know. He decides that telling Patrick right now will mean that he will walk out of that door later feeling better than if he doesn’t. He’s almost certain of what Patrick’s response to that news will be, a kind and accepting one, so there’s very little stopping him from telling. If it were someone else, Frank would have a lot to lose, but since it’s Patrick, there’s not nearly as much.

“Hey, Patrick, can I talk to you about something?” Frank asks, saying the words before his brain rethinks itself and gives him a reason not to. It’s almost a commitment for him to have to say it. He’s looking definitively nervous, just thinking about what he might be about to do, it’s very unnerving. 

“Totally,” Patrick responds.

Frank nods, tries to psych himself up. “Is it alright if I close the door?” 

“Oh, um, yeah,” Patrick says, looking back at him, a lot more interested now. It must be something juicy if Frank’s worried about someone listening in. Not that Patrick would ever exploit Frank like that, but it makes him more excited to hear what Frank has to say. 

Frank stands up, and walks the short distance to the door. He checks the hallway, but no one is there, or at least no one who he cares about. Frank closes the door and then stands awkwardly in the room, feeling very much uncomfortable, and the fact that Patrick is as socially inept as he is definitely isn’t helping the situation any. Frank goes back to the chair he’d been sitting in, then looks at Patrick, struggling to make eye contact so he instead focuses in on the bridge of Patrick’s nose, hoping he won’t be able to tell the difference. 

“So, what’s this about?” Patrick asks. 

Frank takes a deep breath. “Well, it’s, it’s sort of about you and Pete, but mostly not.”

“Oh,” Patrick replies. He had really hoped that Frank might let the whole him and Pete thing go. Now he’s sure that Frank is about to interview him about gayness or something else equally as uncomfortable and invasive. Patrick is going to do his best to be cordial, but he’s sure he’s going to be very awkward about it. 

“Well, see, okay, so it’s not that I can’t talk to Pete about this. It’s not that I don’t trust him, because I do, it’s just that, well, I don’t want anyone on the team to know, okay? Like I’m just… I’m nervous that he’ll let it slip, or that he’ll look at me differently, or something else stupid that I know I shouldn’t be paranoid about but I am anyway.”

“Okay?”

Frank takes another couple of deep breaths, still not entirely sure that he wants to do this, but nevertheless, he thinks it’s time. He thinks that Patrick is probably the best possible option for him to reveal all of this to, because Patrick is probably the nicest guy Frank actually knows. Patrick is kinder than Pete, not to say that Pete isn’t nice, it’s just that Patrick is very pure and sweet in all respects. Pete is a little bit riskier, to a certain extent. Pete also seems like he’d have a harder time keeping a secret than Patrick does. Patrick is naturally more quiet, less likely to let it slip if he doesn’t talk as much as Pete does in the first place.

“And it’s not like I won’t tell him, it’s just, I’ve been putting this off for a really long time, and I’m going to be honest with you, Patrick, I trust you. I trust you a lot. You’re the kind of guy who is just, like, trustworthy, you know? Who you can keep a secret with and won’t tell anyone.”

“Thank you?” Patrick asks, squinting his eyes, not sure if that’s the right response or if Frank even wanted a response. 

“What I say to you cannot leave this room, okay? Not under any circumstances whatsoever. Absolutely none.”

“Alright,” Patrick says, feeling wary about agreeing to something before he’s heard the butt end of whatever it is he’s agreeing to. 

“So, okay,” Frank starts, feeling trepidation, “So no one in the world knows what I’m about to tell you. Not a single soul. Not my own mother. You’ll be the only person on this entire planet, in this whole fucking solar system who will know the information that I’m about to give you.”

Patrick nods, feeling ever more uncertain about agreeing to not telling anyone. He’s actually a little bit nervous for whatever Frank has to say, because whatever it is, it has to be something big for Frank to go through all of this very apparent nervousness and a confidentially oath. 

“So, here goes,” Frank says, looking about ready to puke. He doesn’t calm his breathin,g but he calms his breathing, can feel the worry in his own stomach. He closes his eyes and gulps, before ripping the band aid off. “I’m… I’m gay.”

“Oh,” Patrick says, with a look of realization that flashes across his face with a hint of relief. “Okay, yeah.”

Frank opens his eyes to evaluate Patrick’s expression and he seems surprised by the news but also understanding, and it’s a hopeful look for Frank to see. His heart is still beating a mile a minute, but at least he doesn’t feel that bubbling in his stomach like he’s about to hurl. 

“And, I’m telling you because you are too, so I mean, I know that that’s not going to scare you. And like I said, I can, or at least, I hope, that I can trust you with that information.”

“Absolutely!” Patrick says, “definitely! I would never dream of telling anyone. No one. Not even Pete. Not if you say not to.”

“Yeah?” Frank feels a sensation rushing into his veins, like it’s being pumped in from an IV, and it feels a lot like relief. He’s told someone his secret. And he’s not dead. Someone knows, and he’s okay with it. He’s nice about it. Someone in the world knows Frank’s secret. He’s honestly so pumped up with adrenaline and incredulity that he can’t tell how he feels about anything other than that he feels relieved for someone else to know. 

“Yes, Frank. You’re keeping my secret, I will keep yours, without a doubt.”

“Right, wow,” Frank says. “That was… that was a lot easier than I thought it would be.”

“I hope I wasn’t making it _hard_ ,” Patrick replies, “’Cause I get it Frank. I get how hard it is to come out, and especially for you, in the place that you are. It must be so hard for you. Pete only fessed up because I told him first, but you, you just came out and said it. I’m really honored that I’m the first person you’ve told, Frank, it means a lot to me that you would trust me that much.”

“Well, I do,” Frank says, “you’ve got one of those faces.” Patrick’s got a baby face, maybe that’s why he seems so trustworthy. You definitely couldn’t trust him to keep a dead body a secret, or to help you bury it, because he’s too honest to ever aid in something like that, but he can handle a secret like this, one that doesn’t effect anyone but Frank.

Frank just feels so free. He feels like he’s taken a large weight off of himself. Feels like when you take a heavy textbook out of your backpack and then walk around feeling like you’ve lost the weight of a building. 

Patrick knows, and of all the people in the world who could know, Frank’s glad it’s Patrick. He wishes it were Gerard, and that Gerard was okay about it, but since he can’t have that, he’s happy for Patrick to know, and for Patrick to be so kind about it. He’s just so glad that someone knows and that he isn’t carrying a secret as huge as this by himself. He’s not alone anymore. Someone actually knows. This feeling is an amazing one, an absolutely fantastic one. 

“I just can’t believe someone knows. It’s been so long, and, like, finally someone knows.”

Frank feels the same way that he felt that one time when he met Billie Joe Armstrong. Very much astonished, a little high on excitement, ecstatic, and just completely bewildered.

While Frank is marinating in the feeling of freedom, the gears in Patrick’s brain start to spin, and he makes a realization or two of his own. 

“Frank, there’s something that I want to talk to you about, actually,” Patrick says.

Frank, confused, looks back at him and asks, “What is it?”

“Well, it’s… okay, so you have the right to say no, and completely and utterly refuse, get mad at me if you need to, I just want to know if I can ask you to… do something for me?”

“I’m listening,” Frank responds, curious now. 

“Well, okay, so for a while now, I mean three years’ worth of a while, Pete’s been, he’s been really beaten up over his, you know, not being able to tell anyone. He’s felt really super alone. He just feels like no one else in the world understands and it’s really beaten him down, because, you know, he wants there to be someone else like him, just one person.”

“You want me to tell Pete,” Frank concludes.

“No, that’s not what I was going to ask. Honestly, I believe you’ll tell Pete all on your own without me having to ask you to, because I bet you want to have someone to talk to who’s on the team just as much as he does. That’s not what this is about, though, this is something… bigger. A lot bigger.”

Frank furls his eyebrows together, not seeing the picture that Patrick is painting quite yet.

“So, the thing is, a while ago, I asked Pete if I could interview him, for the paper. I wanted to write an article about there being a hockey player who was gay. Anonymous of course, I don’t want him to ruin his life by slapping his name all over it, but I just thought, wouldn’t it be something, such an inspiration for not only any other gay hockey players at this school, but any other gay sports players, wouldn’t it be amazing for them to know that they’re not alone? I don’t want to pressure someone into coming out if they don’t want to, I just want people to know that they’re not alone, and I want them to know that there’s nothing wrong with them.”

“You want to interview me,” Frank states.

“Yeah, kind of,” Patrick replies. “Pete said he wouldn’t do it. He said that he was too scared of someone finding out that it was him. He said no. I never wanted to pressure him so I only ever asked him once, but he seemed pretty determined about not wanting to do it.”

“I don’t know, Patrick,” Frank says, putting his hand on his neck, and feeling kind of nervous all of a sudden.

“It’d be anonymous! Completely anonymous. I could even put a disclaimer saying that, like, I don’t even know who the player actually is, I just got, emailed or something by them? It’s a lie, sure, but if it would protect you I’m willing to do it.”

“Yeah, I get it,” Frank says, “I’m just not sure I want to be the one who would do that. Cause what if someone _did_ find out? What would I do if my secret got out?”

“No one would find out. There’s sixteen guys on that team. You don’t stand apart from any of the other guys! I just want others to have hope. There are so many people at this school, so many sports teams, but in the entire student population, there is not a single openly gay sports player on any team, of any sport. Not a single one. Not just for boy’s teams, there’s no girls who are out either. For them, and I’m sure there’s got to be a good dozen or so, they have no one. They probably can’t tell anyone. They’re in the same boat as you and Pete, they’re completely alone. I don’t want them to have to feel that way when I can offer them some hope.”

“Patrick, I don’t know ab-” Frank is interrupted when the door opens a moment later. Pete doesn’t knock when he comes through the door, probably because it’s his room. Also, because he wouldn’t be too bothered walking in on Patrick naked. He might even be into it. 

“Frank!” Pete says when he sees Frank sitting there. Pete’s got that ever-present Cheshire Cat smile of his, wide enough to light up the night sky. “Just the man I wanted to see!”

“Me?” Frank asks.

“Yeah, you dude,” Pete replies. “It’s trivia night at the café, man.”

“It’s what now?” Frank asks.

“Trivia night, motherfucker!” Pete says, looking excited. 

“I forgot all about it,” Patrick says, Frank looks back at him, his face a blank, not revealing any of the conversation that transpired between the two of them. Frank sighs in relief at that, glad that Pete won’t suspect anything just happened. He will tell Pete, soon probably, but not right now. Frank’s already come out once today, the first time in his life, he needs a little time to recharge for the next time. 

“Okay?” Frank asks.

“We need a fourth for our team, dude!” Pete says, “Travie’s got a date, I need someone to fill in for him! So, what do you say, are you in or are you in?”

“I’m not that good at trivia,” Frank replies. 

“Winning team gets a twenty-five-dollar gift card for coffee!” Pete says, and if that’s not convincing then Frank doesn’t know what it is. 

“You had me at free money,” Frank replies. 

“Great!” Pete says. “I’ll let Gerard know!”

Frank’s heart either sinks or flies at the sound of Gerard’s name. Gerard being on their trivia team makes the whole night a completely different thing. If Gerard’s not there, it’s Frank hanging out with two of his best friends, answering trivia questions and having fun. If Gerard _is_ there, it’s a whole lot of awkward eye contact and heart fluttering and breathing problems and gawking. If Gerard’s there, though, the night’s going to be a whole hell of a lot more fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading guys, please leave a comment for free telepathic hugs!


	14. Trivia Night, Motherfucker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank would give Gerard his muffin (wink wink, nudge nudge).

“Wait, you are actually kidding me, right?” Frank asks.

“What, are you disrespecting the team name?”

“’You’re a quizzard Harry?” Frank deadpans in response.

“It’s a good name!” Pete says, “Our forefathers sailed the seven seas, through thick and thin, massacring whole cultures, just to bring us that name, and you dare diss it? I think not, sir!”

“You’re taking the name too seriously, it’s a bad pun,” Patrick says, rolling his eyes at Pete. Pete makes an exaggerated frowny face, looks like a clown without the makeup, and Frank can tell just from the look in Patrick’s eyes that it takes everything in his power not to kiss him. Frank really wishes he had someone like that. Someone who is just a fucking idiot no matter what they do and it’s the most endearing thing in the world. Gerard’s a bit of a moron, to be fair, but Frank’s not allowed to kiss him which is a major bummer. 

“It’s a beautiful pun, stop disrespecting the pun!”

“At least you’re pretty,” Patrick says, under his breath, and Frank is so fucking jealous that he clenches his fists a little bit. He’s trying not to be _that_ guy though. He is actually happy for them, happy that they seem to be in love. He knows he’s a third wheel, though, and it fucking sucks. At least Gerard is going to third wheel with him. If it were up to Frank it’d be a double date, but the world just sucks sometimes. 

“We’re going to win tonight, I can feel it,” Pete says.

“We haven’t won in a year because you keep putting joke answers to questions,” Patrick says. “The answer to ‘What year did man first walk on the moon?’ is not ‘the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell.””

“Okay, but are you sure?” Pete replies.

“I’m fairly sure.”

“But are you absolute positive?” 

“I would say so.”

“The answer is 1969,” Frank says.

“Can’t say the Even Stevens never taught you anything.”

“I really want that free coffee, Pete,” Frank says. “Don’t ruin this for me.”

“I mean, if a golden opportunity shows up for a pun, I’m not going to say no.”

“Don’t worry,” Patrick says, “I can punch him if he really pisses you off.”

“He’s pissing me off a little bit right now,” Frank says, and because Patrick is a good friend, he punches Pete in the side of his arm. 

“You’re a bitch,” Pete shakes his head.

“So, where’s Gerard?” Frank asks in his best casual voice, peering around at the busy campus around them, looking for that jet black hair that he’s come to know too well. 

“He’ll meet us there,” Pete assures. The coffee shop that holds trivia night is one of the only ones in the town that is not a Starbucks. It’s a little family owned place that supposedly makes the best fucking chai in the world, or at least that’s what he keeps hearing from Pete, who, being the obnoxiously gay man that he is, keeps tabs on the places that make the best tea. There are only three types of people who enjoy tea, British people, people who _wish_ they were British, and gays. Everyone else is able to understand that tea just kind of tastes like pond water. 

Frank focuses more on the ground as they walk through the part of campus that is also technically town but is still campus. Frank wonders to himself where Gerard lives, as he’s never seen in what direction Gerard goes, other than the knowledge that it is to the left of the ice rink somewhere, but that doesn’t tell him much. Frank can’t imagine Gerard adulting, it’s just a such an alien concept in his brain. He can’t picture Gerard in his own apartment, paying bills, cooking things. Gerard seems like the kind of guy who could find a way to burn juice. 

Frank could, however, picture Gerard living in an apartment above a record store or a comic book shop. Maybe even above a coffee shop, like in Friends. He can imagine Gerard ordering pizza every other day and having a stack of empty pizza boxes ceiling high in his kitchen, never bothering to throw them out. Gerard’s also the kind of guy who would just take his socks off and leave them in the living room. Who would for some reason, keep a box of Cheez-Its on his bedside table. He can even imagine Gerard’s Netflix queue, filled with shitty horror movies and superhero shows, probably a couple animal documentaries for some reason. He probably falls asleep on the couch more often than in his bed, either too comfortable to relocate or too tired during the middle of a TV show to finish it. 

Frank gets lost in his train of thought, filled to the brim of thoughts about how domestic Gerard must be, and how much he would love to have that with him. It’s annoying, really, that Gerard is so cute, and is also kind of amazing. What a dick. Thinking he can just be everything Frank wants, but straight. Honestly, it’s just cruel. It’s proof that if there is a God that he just likes to taunt people. Like when you remove the ladder from the pool when you’re playing the Sims. That’s Gerard for Frank. Gerard is everything he wants and more, except someone up in heaven forgot to flip the switch that made him gay. 

It’s a shock for Frank when he finds himself standing in the definitely-too-warm-for-the-current-whether coffee shop which smells like what dreams are made of. It’s incredibly crowded, with every single table in the place occupied, and a good portion of the wall space is filled up too. Everyone in the place is clearly a college kid, some of them Frank recognizes because he’s walked past a lot of them.

Frank frowns, worried that they’re not going to have anywhere to sit and that he’s going to have to stand, or that they might have to just leave altogether. That is until Pete spots Gerard in the corner of the building, sitting all alone getting some seriously nasty glares from people around him who think he’s hogging the table for himself while they’re all forced to stand. Gerard locks eyes with Pete and he looks beyond relieved at their arrival.

When Frank sees Gerard for the first time, he doesn’t know if it’s because it’s one of those rare weekends where they don’t have practice, or something else, but for some reason Gerard looks way fucking prettier than usual. His pants are maybe a little too tight, and he’s wearing a Misfits shirt, and he might have actually taken a shower recently because his hair looks all soft and fluffy. Gerard must be trying to impress somebody, probably some girl who’s also a regular to trivia night, because he never makes that much of an effort for practice.

Of course, Gerard is trying to impress Frank, whether intentionally or subconsciously, he’s not sure even himself, but he sure as hell is trying to impress him. Frank mentioned something about liking the Misfits, so Gerard is trying to get a shoe in. Gerard knows Frank is in love with some girl he’s known since he was like five, but Gerard is an optimist in his heart, and his hope is to someday look so irresistible that he just fucking turns Frank. It could happen. Strangers things have happened. 

Gerard hadn’t expected Frank to be here until he got a last second text from Pete, about an hour before he left his apartment. It forced him to have to completely change his clothes, actually take a shower and then spend nearly half an hour and way too much product to make his hair look _perfect_. It’s all worth it though, because he needs to look beautiful for Frank. Even if Frank is straight and he doesn’t have a chance with him, it’s still Gerard’s duty to look as good for him as he can. It’s a mental thing, really. 

“Hey guys,” Gerard says, attempting for a fraction of a second to make eye contact with Frank before he realizes that it’s a bad idea. Gerard knows that if he meets those brown eyes of his, that he’ll likely become too intoxicated to look away. He doesn’t think he’d ever be able to think straight again with Frank’s eyes haunting him like that. Gerard’s a sucker for brown eyes, which makes things all the worse. If Frank had only had blue or green eyes Gerard’s life would have been so much easier, but no, of course Frank’s eyes have to be the color of longing. Frank’s eyes are a dark shade of brown, the lighter they are the more innocent a person looks, but with the dark brown ones that Frank has it just makes him look sinful. Gerard can’t complain. 

Frank is mesmerized by Gerard, practically stops dead in his tracks at the mere sight of him. It gives Patrick an opening to talk to him in relative privacy, as Pete walks around the side of the table to take the seat next to Gerard. 

“Frank,” Patrick whispers to him, and Frank turns to look at him, seeing something in his eyes that he recognizes but can’t quite pinpoint.

“What’s up?” Frank asks, trying to be as quiet as Patrick is, which is hard considering that it’s very busy and this of course means that it’s also very loud.

“You’ll consider the interview, won’t you?” Patrick asks, which evokes recognition in Frank. He had all but forgotten what Patrick had asked him to do earlier, but now he remembers. 

He’s not sure where he stands on that topic, as he doesn’t know whether or not he would want to do that. On the one hand, he doesn’t get much out of it at all. It’d just be an interview he’d give Patrick about his own existence. It’s nothing really that could ever come back to affect him positively in anyway. Except the repercussions of that interview could be enormous. What if the hockey team isn’t okay with it? What if they go on a witch hunt once they find out that someone among them is gay? What will he do then? If they try to attack him or anyone else on the team for being gay, Frank doesn’t know what he’d even do. He can’t allow them to bully any of the other team for what he’s done. What if they find out about Pete? Ultimately, it’d be Frank’s fault if Pete’s secret were to leak because of an interview that _Frank_ gave. He can’t have that on him. 

But at the same time, Patrick makes a point. There are no gay sports players at this school, period. No one. But there have to be a dozen or so, maybe more. This is still a fairly large campus and for literally no one to be gay, it’s statistically impossible. They all must be so scared, that’s why none of them are out. Frank can imagine what it’s like for them, because it’s the same thing he feels. If Frank were to read an article about an anonymous gay baseball player or football player, or any other sport, he thinks he’d feel a little relieved. He’d feel better about himself, he’d feel more valid. He’d feel like he’s not fighting against a current that’s sure to sweep him off into a whirlpool. He’d actually feel like he’s allowed to exist, which is a feeling that he honestly hasn’t felt before. 

Frank doesn’t say anything to Patrick, he just turns his attention to the other two at the table. He doesn’t actually remember sitting down, but here is. Gerard is sitting across from him, and he’s glad of that much. If Gerard’s across from him than he can’t accidentally brush up against his arm, so he’ll be fine. Merely having Gerard’s arm an inch or two away from him gives Frank this emotion that he can’t even describe. Until meeting Gerard, he’d never even felt it before. It’s a feeling that’s weird and a little _off_. Knowing that Gerard is right there, a few centimeters away, so ungodly close but just far enough that he can’t touch him, it’s just completely insane, and it’s aggravating. It makes him _want_ and _yearn_ more than he usually does. Their proximity makes it so much harder for him to embrace the fact that Gerard’s not his. He needs to avoid that feeling, because it really tormented him on the plane last night, which is why he’d escaped Gerard on the flight this morning. He didn’t think he could bear that again.

Sitting across from Gerard is pretty hard too, though. It’s definitely not _as_ hard, because it doesn’t feel like someone’s holding something over him, but it does remind him of the fact that Gerard is really attractive, more so than usual. He’s just… Frank doesn’t know how _does that_. How does he just look like that? How is anyone that perfect? How is Frank supposed to even think when he’s near Gerard? It’s awful. He hates how much he likes him. He just wishes he could have him, and have him all to himself. He wants to love Gerard, shower him in adoration.

Frank would be the best fucking boyfriend, he knows it. He’d pull chairs out for Gerard if they went out for dinner, and he’d open the car door. He’d buy Gerard stuffed animals from the drugstore when he’s having a bad day, and he’d probably be the big spoon everyday if it made Gerard happy. He’d cook for him, would probably spend way too long making sure everything is perfect, and then do the dishes so that Gerard doesn’t have to. He’d go out to buy him Oreos at three in the morning if Gerard was having a craving, and he’d push the grocery cart when they’re out shopping. He’d just be fucking fantastic at it, it’s the job he was born for, and yet he’s never had the opportunity to be that guy. He wants so much to be that guy, to be the perfect boyfriend, and the fact that he hasn’t gotten that shot sucks more than he can put into words. 

“I’m ready to fucking own at trivia,” Pete announces to the rest of the table.

“There’s like, gotta be at least two hundred people in here,” Frank says.

“It’s a slow night compared to usual,” Gerard says. “When the weather is nicer they usually have to do it outside.”

“Why do so many people show up?”

“Have you not heard about the free coffee?” Gerard asks. “Twenty-five whole dollars in free coffee? I’d give my left arm for that much free coffee.”

“To be fair, for a college student, twenty-five bucks of coffee covers about a day and a half.”

“But that’s a whole day and a half of not paying for coffee,” Pete points out. “I can barely afford to not die.”

“How does a team split twenty-five dollars four ways?” Frank asks.

“We’ll figure that out when we win,” Pete says. “The last time we won, Patrick and I were freshmen so it’s been a while.”

“We blew it all on muffins,” Patrick says, and he looks off into the distance like he’s reminiscing. 

“Worth it,” Pete says, and he raises his hand, waiting for Gerard to high five him. Gerard shakes his head, and he clearly doesn’t want to, but he’s still Pete’s friend and there is nothing in this world worse than being left hanging, so he does, reluctantly, high five him back. 

“Pete ate my muffins,” Gerard says, looking at Frank, but not in the eyes because he _can’t_.

“I saved you one!” Pete says.

“Yeah, but you ate it.”

“You don’t like peanut butter,” Pete shrugs.

“You specifically saved the peanut butter muffin ‘for me’ because you know I don’t like peanut butter so you knew I wouldn’t eat it.”

“Me?” Pete says, in an exaggerated tone as he holds his hand up to his chest, looking scandalized. “I would never.”

“That’s cold, man,” Frank says, shaking his head.

“And I’m the one who knew the winning question!” Gerard says. “Fuck, now you got me all steamed, man. You owe me muffins. _With_ interest!”

“Great, so I’ll just go buy a couple peanut butter muffins-” and that’s when Patrick kicks him under the table. “Ow! _Dude_!”

“The man deserves a muffin,” Patrick says. Frank would give Gerard his muffin. 

“I-” Pete starts, but is interrupted by the sound of feedback from what Frank supposes could technically be called a stage if you’re in desperate need of glasses. Frank locks eyes on the woman whose standing on the stage. She’s one of those definitely a hippie, but probably really nice, maybe even attended Woodstock, kind of older ladies. She also looks like she’d read your palm and definitely lights scented candles. She’s got a gaudy fare trade skirt, and exudes the aura of a lady you don’t want to mess with. Gerard calls her Trelawney. Frank decides that he likes her.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and individuals not limited by societal delusions, welcome to trivia night. I am honored that you would spend your Saturday evening here with two hundred of your closest friends.” 

She then goes over the rules, advises the room that anyone caught cheating, such as using their phone, will be haunted by the spirit of an elderly man who doesn’t know when to shut up and starts every sentence with “back in my day.” Frank understands why that’s a serious threat, because he’s pretty sure he’d rather die. 

After she finishes discussing the rules, she gives the first question which is about some treaty that Frank’s pretty sure was once the topic of a lecture that he fell asleep during. It’s safe to say that he does not know the answer. The first three questions go by and Frank is of no help at all. 

“Alright which one is Kenneth Bianchi and which one’s Kenneth Branagh, I always get them mixed up,” Pete says.

“Well Kenneth Branagh played Gilderoy Lockhart and Hamlet. Kenneth Bianchi murdered twelve people,” Patrick says, with this tired look on his face like this is something that he deals with regularly. Not Pete mixing celebrities and serial killers up, but rather Pete’s general idiocy. 

“How do you not accidentally walk into traffic?” Gerard asks, looking at Pete with this look of defeat on his face comparable to no other. 

“Oh, I do it all the time,” Pete says, “I’m just a lucky bastard.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” Gerard says, looking up, as if he’s asking God personally.

“Well both answers are wrong, because the answer is Willem Dafoe but it’s impressive how you pulled that out of your ass,” Frank says, shaking his head, and grabbing the paper, from in front of Patrick who’s been writing down most of the answers. Frank’s just proud to know the answer to one of the questions. 

“What would we do without you?” Pete asks.

“Well I know what you would do,” Frank says to Pete, “fall through open man holes.”

“Well if you’re not supposed fall in why do they call it a _man_ hole?” Pete asks.

“Oh Pete,” Patrick says, nodding at him, and also probably thinking that it’s just a wonder that Pete hasn’t accidentally killed himself by now. If Pete were a Friend’s character, he’d be Joey. Mikey was right the other day when he called Pete a special snowflake. He truly is. It’s really a blessing that Pete’s one of a kind, because honestly the world wouldn’t be able to put up with two. 

Frank drifts in and out of attention, paying a little bit of his brain towards hearing the questions that Trelawney asks, but then going back to thinking about everything else when he determines that he does not know the answer. He contributes a few answers, he knows the name of a mountain range, knows a bulk of the questions about music, even the shitty music like the question about Katy Perry. 

Mostly he’s thinking about Gerard. He’s also kind of looking at Gerard too much under normal social conventions, but he thinks he can get away with it because of the fact that Gerard is the person sitting directly opposite him. 

“I know this one,” Pete says, looking serious before he says, “the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell.”

“Oh fuck off,” everyone else at the table says, almost with synchronicity. Except Patrick, who apparently doesn’t swear and instead says “flip off” like a fifth grader would say before hiding behind their lunchbox and giggling. 

Frank looks at Gerard who is honestly too pretty and it’s not fair. It’s not fair that the guy who Frank likes has to look like _that_. Can the world be any crueler? If you’re going to give a guy a face like that, at least make him a jerk. Give him some enormous flaw. Make him a murderer, or an asshole, or a Blood on the Dancefloor fan. It’s just not fair that he’s perfect. How is Frank supposed to not fall in love with him when he looks like _Gerard_? And when the guy you like is a comic book loving, punk music dork? He supposes Gerard does have one flaw though: heterosexuality.

Little does Frank know Gerard doesn’t even have that. He’s probably the closest to perfect Frank will ever come across. To be fair though, Gerard thinks all the same things about Frank. 

What Frank wouldn’t give for Gerard to be gay though. He’d literally sell his soul. He probably wouldn’t quit hockey, but he’d do anything except for that. Of course, that’s impossible because if Gerard was gay and into him he’d have to quit hockey anyway, unless he kept it a secret like Pete and Patrick. Frank doesn’t know if he could do that though, because he wants to have a boyfriend, and he wants to not give a fuck who knows. He wants to be open about it, not rude or obnoxious or overly affectionate in public, necessarily, he doesn’t want to do that. He just wants to hold Gerard’s hand while walking down a street. That’s really all he’d ask for. He’d like to be able to say he’s got a date with his boyfriend to his teammates and not have anything of them bat an eyelash. He would live with keeping it a secret though, if it was Gerard. 

Frank has simple wants and desires. Unfortunately, the simplicity of them does not make them tangible. 

Frank starts thinking about Patrick’s interview again, though. There’s so many gay people, at this school, who are alone. Even the ones who are out must feel lost and lonely. It’s kind of a position that you assume when you realize you’re gay. You just sort of feel like an outsider, like everyone else thinks your _other_. You’re not like them. Not quite wrong, but definitely not _right_. That’s how most straight people see it, even the ones who are okay with it, and to some extent they are okay with it, but at the same time, there’s always been and likely always will be an _us_ and _them_ dynamic. 

There’s so many of them who feel left out on this campus, though. Not just gay people, there’s so many different people who feel like outsiders; anyone who’s not cis, and anyone who’s not solely attracted to the opposite gender. So many of them. Not all of them are out, some of them are totally out, some of them are only a little. Not all of them play sports, but all of them have friend groups; people they’re afraid to tell, people they want to know. 

Frank’s just one fish in a very large sea. He’s not the only one who feels the ways that he does. He’s not the only one with a Gerard. He’s not the only one on a team of players they’re afraid to tell. 

He’s not the only one who’s scared. 

You’re a Quizzard, Harry does not win the twenty-five-dollar gift card. A team who clearly deserves it more wins, because they answered the most questions correctly. Frank does at least feel like he contributed to his team, even though they didn’t win. He wishes he knew where they placed comparatively, but there’s got to be at least fifty separate teams here and there’s no way that Trelawney or her staff can calculate that all so fast. 

Nevertheless, Frank can’t say he didn’t enjoy himself. It’s one of his first nights out in, well… ever. Other than the first day he got to this school when he and some of the team all went out for coffee, it’s the first social gathering with friends he’s attended. Most of it was spent fawning over Gerard, but he wouldn’t say that’s a negative. 

Despite how torturous it is to like Gerard, Frank does really enjoy spending time with him. Obviously, the downside of that is that he falls even more in love with Gerard the more time he spends with him, but it’s just a thing he has to accept. He likes Gerard’s company too much to be deterred by something like that. He can’t help it. Gerard’s laugh is infectious, his small voice is intoxicating. Even the little ways he expresses himself, by talking with his hands or using his eyes in as much a voice as his actual voice. The way he gets excited about little things, or the way his nose wrinkles a little bit when he’s smiling really widely. 

Honestly, Frank thinks the best word for him is cute. It’s not to say he’s not hot or whatever, he’s just cuter than he is anything else. He’s giggly, and he makes an expressive face at every little emotion or after anyone says anything, like everything around him is worthy of a reaction. He’s lost in his own little world a lot of the time, it’s like you look at Gerard while he’s somewhere else, exploring other planets, meeting new species. He’s so full of life and it’s all hidden behind those bags under his eyes, but it doesn’t take much to see past the surface. The first time you see him smile you can tell what’s there. Gerard is a whole world just waiting to be let out. 

Frank’s helplessly falling in love with him.

“If we were gonna lose anyway, I should’ve made all those puns. I should’ve pulled out Jenga Unchained when I had the chance.”

“What would we do without you, Pete?” Patrick asks.

“I don’t know but you’d probably have fewer vision problems, because of how much I make you roll your eyes.”

“That’s why I wear glasses,” Patrick says, looking like he’s just solved a particularly difficult math problem. 

Pete grins back, and Frank wishes on their behalf that they could be all cutesy and coupley, but they don’t get that opportunity. It sucks, even secondhand. He can’t imagine how much it would suck for him to have to keep a relationship a secret. He knows that inevitably it might happen someday. Frank can’t just be celibate and single _forever_ , not with how much he wants not to be. He’s going to have to keep under the radar, but eventually he’s sure he’ll pluck up the courage to actually try. He wishes it was with Gerard. He wouldn’t mind keeping it a secret as much if he got to come home to Gerard. That’s like when you go to the doctor when you’re a kid to get a flu shot but your mom buys you a piece of cake. Yeah, you got a shot and your arm kind of hurts, but on the other hand, cake. 

Frank grabs his coat, and is really regretting having to leave Gerard. He wishes he could spend all night with him. In more ways than one.

Gerard watches Frank, studies him with an aching sort of feeling. He wants to walk over to him and kiss him so much that it’s hard not to. He’s got to actually restrain himself. It’s hard when he’s so close. Gerard wishes that he could push Frank away, emotionally. But he can’t. He’s beckoned by danger. Frank’s like a siren. He knows he shouldn’t, but he’s just too tempting to pass up. He knows he can’t kiss Frank, and he knows hanging around him all this time wishing that he could won’t get him anywhere. Being near him is not going to make Frank any less straight. But as much as he knows it’s pointless, he likes Frank too much to care. He’d rather be constantly tortured by how much he wants Frank than not have Frank in his life at all. 

It’s only been a week but it feels like he’s known Frank for years. Probably because Frank, one way or another, is always there. Even when he’s not talking to Gerard, Frank will show up right under his nose. He studies in the rink a lot. In the bleachers, on the seats in the lobby, sometimes on the floor of the lobby. He also sees Frank walking to and from class a lot, because of how close Frank’s dorm is to the rink. He’s not looking out for him, not intentionally so, but he always notices him when he sees Frank walking by. He could never miss him. 

“You alright?” Pete asks him when Gerard is sort of drifting off, staring at Frank as he puts his coat on. 

“What?” Gerard asks, snapping out of his reverie like a sling shot. “I’m fine. Just spaced out, I guess.” 

Pete shrugs, he doesn’t think much of it. Gerard spaces out a lot, it’s kind of just who he is. He’s never entirely there when you think he is. A part of him is always somewhere else. He’s a space cadet, but he’s a lovable one. 

Frank doesn’t notice, he’s too focused on his own thoughts and problems. As the four of them make for the door, Frank starts to feel something in his stomach, and he realizes that he’s come to a decision concerning that article of Patrick’s.

There’s just so much at risk. There’s too much at risk. Frank’s own secret, and Pete’s. Then there’s the fact that the team might crumble under the weight of something like that, especially if they don’t know who the gay guy in their ranks is. If they know who it is, they can just kick him off the team, but if no one knows who the gay guy is, then everyone’s a suspect. 

But so many people could benefit from an article like that. So many people could feel hope, could feel comfort, could feel a mess of positive emotions because of a sacrifice that Frank makes. They might actually feel less lost. May feel valid. Even if they don’t know who Frank is, to feel you belong is something every human deserves but so many people don’t have. 

Gerard holds the front door for him as a dozen or so other people are all trying to leave the coffee shop at the same time. Frank mumbles out a thank you that he’s not sure if Gerard’s heard or not.

“Patrick,” Frank says, catching him once the fresh air hits their faces, as he’s about to start hurrying away off to his dorm. He doesn’t want Patrick getting too far before Frank changes his mind about this. He’s hesitant, it’s a big decision he’s making here, even if it doesn’t seem like it right now. But Frank tends to feel more clarity once he’s locked himself into things. Even earlier when he decided to tell Patrick his secret, telling Patrick that he’s got something to say solidifies what he’s going to do before he says it. That commitment somehow takes some of the weight off of him, even though he _could_ say never mind. 

“Yeah?” Patrick asks, puzzling his eyebrows, and looking uncertain about what he’s going to hear from Frank. Patrick’s still waiting for Frank’s answer, fairly sure of what it is that Frank’s going to say. He’ll say the same thing Pete had. It’s too risky, too little in it for him. It’s alright, it’s Frank’s decision to make, he just thinks that it would help so many people.

“That article, the interview?” Frank says, and Patrick nods, he’d already known what this was about. Frank takes a deep breath and then says, “Count me in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit's gonna get real soon.


	15. A Turning of the Tides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Busy, busy, busy.

Frank’s week proves to be a very busy one. From the first of the week, it seems Frank can’t find the time to do much of anything besides, eat, sleep, practice, and squeeze in a little bit of schoolwork. It’s not a busy week as far as school is concerned, but it’s one of the weeks where they have two hockey games crammed into the same couple of days, which means that Frank is doing a whole lot of practicing, and if he’s lucky has a little bit of time in between to breathe.

Their first game of the week is on Wednesday which means that all of Monday, and a majority of Tuesday is spent doing endless practicing. Gerard decided it would be a good idea to schedule a morning practice, which most hockey teams do anyway, but it turns out not to be a bad idea for their team. They all pile into the locker room on Monday morning, before the sun has even risen yet, a time early enough that a week ago, Frank would have done some figure skating practice with the assurance that no one would barge in. 

They are very tired Monday morning, nothing much is achieved besides making Frank sore throughout most of his classes that day. That night, they have another practice. Gerard runs a practice game. Frank, Pete and Morgan win the practice game, almost singlehandedly given how shitty the other teams defense is, and then Gerard yells at the defense of the opposing team he’d made because they’re not actually doing anything to stop Frank from making goal after goal. Frank honestly wouldn’t even say he makes the goals because he’s good, he would say that he makes the goals because someone, not to name any names, but Mikey, is just not fucking trying. 

“Michael James Way, what the fuck are you even doing out there? Do you need me to get you a TV remote? Is the game not exciting enough for you? Need a fucking sandwich, you little shit?” Gerard says, very loudly, earning him somewhat of a reprimanding from Coach, who obviously doesn’t like Gerard speaking to the players like that.

“He’s my brother, I say worse things to him when he does something right,” Gerard replies, in defense. Coach doesn’t push it, but she’s obviously not happy with Gerard’s word choice. Frank doesn’t mind as long as Gerard’s not yelling at him.

Gerard loosens up on the swearing, but not on his attitude. He’s still very critical about Mikey’s performance, as well as some of the junior and senior players who he obviously expects to be doing better than they are. At least a good three fourths of the reason he’s tough on Mikey is because they’re brothers so he obviously expects more from him, but really, the guys who’ve been on the team for three to four years now should be doing better. 

Morgan, whose one of the oldest guys on the team, is working his ass off, working up a sweat not dissimilar to what you’d expect to see on someone who just jumped into a pool. Frank, who’s one of the youngest players, is trying about twice as hard as the guys who should be better than him. 

Because of this, Frank and Morgan are probably the only two people on the ice who Gerard doesn’t yell at every other second. Even Pete gets his fair share of chewing out. Gerard screams at Frank once or twice when he doesn’t make a shot that he probably should have, but other than that, he remains fairly polite to him. Gerard doesn’t yell at Morgan at all, though, and Frank wonders if that’s because Morgan is a good player, or if it’s because even Gerard is a bit afraid of the guy. Even with the superiority of being a coach, Morgan has got to be one scary dude. It’s not just his eyebrows which make him look evil, it’s also his personality. 

Morgan looks like the kind of cocky rich kid who would murder someone and then hire a lawyer who costs about the same price as a penthouse to defend him. He probably is rich, given his attitude. Rich people definitely carry themselves differently, and they see everyone around them as beneath them. Either Morgan is that arrogant about his hockey skills or he is no stranger to money. Given how poor Frank is he does not like Morgan in the least, seeing as how he literally gave up his dream to attend one of the best hockey schools in the country, in order to get a full ride scholarship for one of the shittiest teams in the country. Why on earth Morgan would be here, however, Frank doesn’t know. Surely, he could have afforded to go to a school with a better team. Perhaps, though, Morgan’s not smart enough to have gotten into a school with a better team. Armstrong’s acceptance rate is somewhere between ninety-five and a hundred percent, which is to say, you don’t need to be a fucking genius to get in. 

Frank is exhausted when Tuesday comes around, but he’s thankful that he doesn’t need to wake up for early practice again today, seeing as how Gerard realized that it was a mistake ten minutes in yesterday. Frank almost considers waking up early anyway to practice figure skating, but decides against it when he feels the warmth of his blankets around him. Instead, Frank sleeps in, presses snooze a few times too many which means that he doesn’t have enough time to grab a coffee before his class.

By the afternoon, Frank is feeling quite a bit more energized than he had been yesterday, given how he didn’t have to attend an early morning practice. It’s just not a good idea, maybe if you’re in the NHL and don’t have classes, but for a college student it’s not logical.

The practice on Tuesday night is ever more grueling however, because they’ve got a game tomorrow. It’s not a home game, the school where they’re playing is about two hours away by bus, which means that Frank has to miss his last class tomorrow to get to the bus, but it’s not the end of the world. He’d spoken to the professor earlier today about it, and he was a little annoyed, but wasn’t objectionable. He probably wouldn’t be irritated at all if their hockey team were any fucking good. To his professor, Frank’s missing class in order to inevitably lose a game.

Frank spends most of practice watching and evaluating the other players, trying to pick out the ones he knows he’ll be able to trust when he’s out on the ice. Travie is a damn good player, but unfortunately, he’s a forward which means that Frank won’t get to play with him, as he’s in a different line. It is reassuring though, to know that Frank’s isn’t the only good line on the team. Travie is a lot like Frank on the ice, a great goal scorer, always about twenty steps ahead of everyone else around him. He’s got a tactical mind, a little bit more analytical than Frank, who usually makes decisions based on his gut, but he’s an interesting player to watch. He’s the kind of guy who you’d go to a hockey game just to watch him, and only him. Frank does that often when the Capitals are playing, just sort of gawks at Ovechkin and tunes out the rest of the world. All the while rooting against them, because Frank is very committed to his shitty, shitty ass home team. 

Another one of the better players is Ray, who, of the two goalies on the team, is the superior one by far. Ray doesn’t let most goals pass him, and Frank suspects that a reason for why their team has been losing so far this season is because of the fact that the other goaltender, whose name is Daniel, was playing when the other team scored a goal. 

Mikey is probably the most defensive offensive player that Frank has ever seen. He’s not really a shot taker, literally, as in he doesn’t even attempt to make most shots. He doesn’t even seem like he’s aware that he’s a forward, because Mikey spends most of play in the defending zone, just sort of lolling around in his own little world. He’s not one of the better players, there’s a good chance he wouldn’t be on the team at all if he weren’t a legacy, a third-generation legacy at that. If this were a different school, rather than the painfully dreadful team that it is, there’s no way in hell Mikey would have made it onto the team. Not that Frank doesn’t like Mikey, because Mikey’s probably one of his closest friends, he’s just not a great hockey player. 

Brendon is a defenseman, and Frank has practiced alongside him only a few times. He’s not bad per say, but he’s an unexciting hockey player. He doesn’t bring anything all that new to the table. He’s quite good, but his skills are limited, very polished, but not extensive. He’s a good player to have on the ice if your team is up on the board, because he acts almost like an offensive player even in the defending zone. He probably isn’t the best choice if you’re lagging behind, however.

The other defensemen on the team are absolutely enormous creatures, big bulking, yetis that you’d expect to see in a dark alleyway at night. They’re also a part of Morgan’s entourage which means that Frank does his best to steer clear of them, both on and off the ice. The scariest guy on the team, apart from Morgan, is Garret, who is conveniently Morgan’s roommate. They look like they’d make quite a team. They could rob banks, commit murders, kidnap people, they’d be great at all of those things. They’re also both fairly good at hockey. Frank is very much terrified of them. The feeling he gets when he’s near them is the same one you’d get if you’re on the highway within close proximity to a truck. You’re somewhat sure it’s not gonna hit you or roll over, but if it did, you’d be dead in a matter of seconds.

The Tuesday night practice goes on for a lot longer than normal. Gerard is pushing them way beyond their limits, but he doesn’t stop. He’s getting even more anxious about the team having lost all of their games so far, and it’s a tangible feeling. Frank could touch it in the air, the hunger in Gerard’s eyes to win a game. He wants it so much, and he’s getting all the more desperate. Frank wants nothing more than to give that to him. Well, that’s not true. Frank wants Gerard more than he wants anything.

The team practice into the night. Frank doesn’t know how long he’s actually been there, but by the time that they’re finally released, the campus has already fallen asleep around them. Frank would love to just collapse when he gets back to his dorm, but he smells like he made a cologne out of locker room smell, so he takes a shower so long that the water starts to turn cold. He’s not as bothered by how long it takes him though, considering that it’s so late that he’s got the shower in their hall all to himself. 

Frank makes his way back to his room, and he finds Ray asleep with a textbook on his chest when he opens the door. Frank does his best to be quiet, considers whether he should do a little bit of homework before he goes to sleep, but the mere thought of it makes his stomach feel like lead, so he decides against it. He’ll just get some work done on the bus tomorrow on the way to their game. 

Frank falls asleep in a matter of seconds. The time between his head hitting his pillow and the time when he falls asleep is so small that a kindergartener who doesn’t really know their numbers yet could still probably count the seconds. 

Frank awakes feeling adrenaline and nerves. He is agitated all throughout the day, he’s not sure if it’s because he didn’t get enough sleep or because he’s nervous about the game tonight, but whatever it is, it keeps him on high alert. He definitely can’t be snuck up on today of all days, because he’s hyperaware as it is. 

The day passes by him at a regular pace, not overly short or fast. He’s definitively nervous, but he’s excited. Tonight seems like, so far, the only game that the team might actually be ready for. They’re not playing a particularly good team, so that definitely evens the odds a little bit. Also, they’re more practiced then they usually are before a game, so Frank feels something that he doesn’t want to call confidence because he’s nervous about how that’ll make him feel if he loses. He calls it reasonable hope, but it’s sure to be devastating if they end up losing, given how much Frank feels like they _might_ actually win. 

Frank does nothing besides study on the bus that afternoon, which gives him a bit of a headache because he doesn’t read well when in a moving vehicle, but he cannot afford to not study right now. Seeing as how Frank didn’t want to bring multiple textbooks with him on the bus, he reads a little ahead of where he needs to be this week, because hopefully it’ll give him an edge a little later on. 

Gerard had sat next to him on the bus with the goal to make casual conversation and to not fall even further in love with the boy, but he doesn’t get either of those things. Frank is too busy to even look up from his textbook, he probably isn’t even aware that Gerard is sitting next to him. 

It’s clear that Frank doesn’t know who’s sitting next to him, because he’s capable of actually reading the textbook while bumping elbows with Gerard. That’s not even accurate, he’s practically pressed up against the guy, could hold up a piece of paper between the two of them, cause it’s a small bus and neither of them are elementary school children so they take up a large part of the seat. If Frank did know it was Gerard, he’d probably faint.

It’s nearly two hours into the bus ride and only about ten minutes to their destination when Frank looks up to realize that Gerard is seated next to him, and that’s when his heart shatters into a million tiny little pieces. He knows that he is henceforth incapable of studying any longer. He is _touching_ Gerard. Sure, it’s his arm and a part of his side, and they’re both wearing multiple layers of clothing, but they’re still making physical contact. Considering how deprived Frank is, this is enough to make him crazy for more which he cannot have.

This prompts Frank to slam his textbook closed and then scoot over in the seat so that his face is practically pressed up against the window, which is cold and unyielding against him, as opposed to the warm softness of Gerard. Frank can definitely say which he’d rather be pressed up against, but he can’t always get what he wants. If it were up to him he’d be pressed up against Gerard whilst wearing no clothes, but the world isn’t always that luxurious. 

When they arrive at the school, Frank is pleasantly surprised to see that their weather is somehow monumentally different than the weather at Armstrong, despite it only being two hours away. The sun is high in the sky, there isn’t a cloud in sight and there’s a pleasant breeze on the air as opposed to the blisteringly cold one that’s been about town the past few days. It’s only days away from winter there, but here, it might as well be spring. 

Frank helps the rest of the team load their gear off the bus and then lug it all into the locker room of the school. Their locker room is quite an odd layout, much like that of a high school. Armstrong may be a somewhat poor school with a shitty hockey team, but their locker room is at least a little bit nicer. It smells pretty bad, but there are worst things. 

Frank wastes as much time as he can out of his hockey gear, because not only is the weather warmer, but so is the hockey arena, which seems to be a furnace. It’s a wonder there’s any ice, Frank would’ve expected it to melt. Frank’s only got twenty minutes or so to kill before he really needs to get ready so he wonders around the outside of the building, which is conventionally next to a small park, which seems more like an alcove than anything else. 

To either his joy or chagrin, Gerard joins him. 

“You nervous about the game tonight?” Gerard asks.

“The answer is always going to be yes. I could be a twelve-year veteran in the NHL playing his one millionth hockey game and the answer will still be yes.”

“Well that’s good then,” Gerard says, “If your nerves ever start to wear off I think that’s a sign you should quit.”

“I suppose,” Frank shrugs. “I bet you’re even more nervous though. You take the team more seriously than even me, and that’s saying something considering hockey is my only interest in life.”

“Well, I don’t know. I just love hockey. I want to see us win. I want to see us actually do something exciting. I want to make not only my dad proud, but like, I want to show the school what we’re made of. The hockey team is a bit of a laughing stock, I’m sure you know. They call our ice rink Hell for fucks sake. It’s treated like a haunted mansion. It sucks, everyone thinks we’re fucking cursed or something. But I think we have it in us to prove them wrong, if only the team could open their eyes to see that.”

“I don’t think our problem is any lack of skill,” Frank says, “it’s just that skill isn’t enough to win a hockey game.”

“Don’t I know it. Things have been changing ever since you got here, Frank, I don’t know if you know that. You can’t know what we were like before you got here, but let me tell you, it’s been steady, but looking back on it now, it’s almost like we’re an entirely new team. It’s subtler than that, but everything’s changing. I think in another few months we’ll have transformed. We’re changing for the better, you know. We’re getting better. Us getting better means we’re still shit, but if we keep climbing, I’m sure we’ll reach the top of the mountain someday.”

“It’s not just me,” Frank shrugs. “There’s a lot of good players on that team. Pete, Travie, hell Morgan is phenomenal. An absolute dick trumpet, but what a hockey player.”

Gerard laughs and nods, “yeah. A lot of the guys are pretty shitty. I don’t know, I think it’s because we’re not all that exclusive, clearly, so anyone can get in, or I mean to say, anyone who actually makes an attempt to get in probably will. You’ve seen how small our team is, even with the exclusivity and finite number of hockey teams that students can play on, none of them want to be on our team.”

“What does that say about me?” Frank says, and Gerard chuckles. 

“We really need you,” Gerard replies. “You must see that.”

“I do,” Frank says. 

“You’re beginning to turn the tides,” Gerard says, “just you wait.” Gerard doesn’t say it out loud, but he’s got a good feeling about the game tonight. This is the first time he’s felt this good going into a game this whole season. After last week’s horrific loss, Gerard wasn’t sure he was capable of feeling this good before a game again, but today is a different day. The team is already starting to improve, and it’s because of a lot of reasons. They’ve been changing up practices, getting in a lot of practice games too, which has really shown some of the strengths and weaknesses of the players. Also, Frank is doing an amazing job at inspiring change. Especially in Pete, and some of the other freshman like Ray and Brendon, Frank’s arrival has actually forced them to up their games, because they can all pretty much tell that if they don’t up their game they’re going to be outskated by Frank in a flash. 

Frank makes the entire team better simply by being one of the best. It makes them all want to be on the same level as him, give him a player that he can actually play well with. 

Morgan has displayed probably the most improvement and it’s not hard to tell why. Morgan wants to be better than Frank. Morgan is used to being the best, he has been for the four years he’s been on the team, he’s been so comfortable in his position as the best that he has fought with gritted teeth to continue to be. He just wants to be better than Frank, to show the team why he’s the one they look up to, not some puny little newbie like Frank. 

Gerard may not like the motivations behind Morgan’s playing, but he sure as hell does love the results. Gerard doesn’t like Morgan, and the entire Morgan situation is a battle he’s been fighting in his head for four years now, ever since Morgan joined the team in the first fucking place. Morgan is a piece of shit, one of the most prominent assholes that the world has ever seen. An award-winning douchebag. But man, is he a good fucking hockey player. Gerard has debated what’s worse, not having a player as good as Morgan on the team or having to put up with Morgan’s asshole behavior. So far, even though Gerard has vaguely rallied to kick him off the team a few times, he has to admit, Morgan does give them some results. Most of the games that they’ve won the past four years, which is not very many, are because of Morgan. He may be an awful person but that doesn’t really outweigh what an asset he is. 

Frank and Gerard head back into the locker room not long after they talk, and Gerard removes himself entirely from the room when Frank starts undressing because he doesn’t trust himself to not gawk at him, and he doesn’t want to be a pervert. It’s all well and good to fantasize about Frank naked, but to actually see him as such is a total abuse of his power. That’s also the main reason for why Gerard quit the team in the first place, he always felt like a dirty human being for merely being in the same room as half naked men when he is himself attracted to men. Even though he never looked, it still always felt weird and disrespectful. 

Given how bad the other team is, the Green Knights head onto the ice later that night feeling more confident than they usually do, which is a dangerous thing. 

It turns out, however, confidence is exactly what the team needs. Most of the game passes by with no event. It isn’t until the latter half of the second period until a goal is even scored, and everyone is dumbfounded to realize it’s Armstrong’s goal. It’s _actually_ their goal. 

Morgan is the one who scored the goal, and Frank, who would usually go over and give a pat on the back or a hug to anyone who scored a goal, does not do so. He doesn’t want to even think about hugging Morgan. Morgan scares him. Morgan would probably punch him in the face. 

In the next period, the other team scores a goal, which ties the two up. Not long after, maybe four minutes of mostly continuous play, the Green Knights score another goal. The scorer is one of the guys that Frank has thus far spoken absolutely zero words to, who is named Kai, and is definitely on the more attractive end of the scale. He also doesn’t seem to be the evilest guy in the world which commendable for a player on this team considering how many satanic monsters are actually on it. Frank speaks his very first words to the guy when he jumps over the wall a few seconds later to say, “great goal, dude.”

Kai, who it must be said could melt a lesser soul with a smile, grins back at him, and surely does do something or other to Frank’s heartbeat when he replies with a, “thanks, man.”

Frank stutters for a few seconds, looks around, lays eyes on Gerard and then all the slight swoon like feelings he’d had for Kai a moment ago wash away to be replaced with similar feelings which are far more potent and paralyzing for Gerard. There are a lot of attractive guys on the team, and some of them are actually pretty nice, but they all pale in comparison to Gerard. It’s not that Gerard is even superior to the others, it’s just that, Gerard is Gerard and therefor better given the fact that he is himself. It’s like when you’re eating dark chocolate and then decide to take a bite of some milk chocolate. Like, dark chocolate is great and it’s awesome and you’d be an idiot to say you don’t like it but then you eat some milk chocolate and suddenly you remember how shit dark chocolate is in comparison. Gerard is the milk chocolate in that scenario. You just can’t beat him.

The team win with no more goals on the board than that. It’s a victory won by one, but it’s a victory all the same. 

Frank couldn’t explain how it happens, because he must not have been thinking, but he somehow finds himself hugging Gerard at the end of the game. It’s just a thing that happens when you win a game, you hug your teammates, he’d hugged Pete only a second ago. He suddenly realizes though that this incredible, amazing, fantastic warmth comes from Gerard though, and that is a very very bad thing. It’s good, it’s beyond good, but the fact that it’s good is bad. 

Gerard squeezes way too tightly, ecstatic to be holding Frank in his own fucking arms, ecstatic that this amazing, gorgeous, beautiful fucking boy is hugging him, and he wants it to never end. He wants to hug Frank for the rest of his life, and cuddle Frank and fuck him a little bit, but mostly cuddle him, and the fact that he has to let go a second later is heartbreaking. 

Frank lets go after what he knows is too long, but he can’t bring himself to let go. He doesn’t even notice that Gerard won’t let go either. It’s way too long. It’s about ten seconds too long. A ‘we won the game’ hug shouldn’t be more than a few seconds but it ends up being like at least thirty seconds which is about twenty-seven seconds past the time when most boys would pull away and say “no homo.”

They do pull away though, and then they both uncomfortably pretend that nothing happened. Gerard pretends to become suddenly very interested in the ceiling while Frank pushes through the guys to find Ray and celebrate with him. They both decide to ignore it ever happening, or at least outwardly. Frank is definitely going to be thinking about that hug late at night for the next twenty years.

The team stays on the bench for a little too long celebrating, but it’s their very first win of the season so they deserve a break. It’s also an away game, which makes the victory a little bit more sweet, because away games are quite a bit harder to win, but they still did win. Now granted, both teams are pretty bad so the winner was pretty much up in the air, as there wasn’t a predictable outcome, but Frank is proud nonetheless. It’s a win, and they haven’t won any games until now, so now their average is slightly better than it had been a few hours ago, and that’s a little victory that they are willing to celebrate. 

Piling into the locker room, Frank notices Patrick for the first time all night, and he walks over to him excitedly. He’s dripping with sweat and would really like to change and shower before they take off back home on another two-hour bus ride, but he wants to talk to Patrick a little bit before then. 

Frank hasn’t had even close to enough time to squeeze in that interview for Patrick. Patrick asked him about it once in passing when he and Frank sat next to each other at lunch, but they haven’t made any concrete plans given how crammed Frank’s life is this week. He tells Patrick that they should be able to do it next week, given that Frank should be having a bit of a lull in his schedule by then, but he can’t be sure. He wants to do it soon, but also wants to postpone it for as long as possible. He is still adamant about doing the interview though, so time will only tell when it actually happens. 

“Great game out there, man,” Patrick says to him, smiling ear to ear. The fact that they won means that the article Patrick does get to right will be so much better than a loss. When they win the game, he doesn’t have to try to swing it in a positive direction, he can just report what happened.

“I mean, it wasn’t that great, but we won, so who fucking cares, right?” Frank says, excitedly. He knows it’s not necessarily the most impressive win ever, certainly doesn’t hold a candle to the game Gerard’s father had won all those decades ago, but it was a win, and for Armstrong, any win is a surprise and a miracle.

“I’m still proud,” Patrick says. Frank wonders if he’s proud of the team or proud of Pete, because Morgan may have scored that first goal, but partial credit must go to Frank and Pete both for their assists. 

“It feels good to finally win,” Frank says, exhilarated. His whole body has reacted to the joy, despite how unbelievably tired and sore he is. He can’t believe they’ve actually won a game though, half of Frank expected to go the whole year without any wins at all. Even the worst team wins from time to time, though. 

It feels good to win again, it’s a feeling Frank is used to but it feels foreign to him now, because he has never won a game with these people by his side. Whenever Frank would win a game in high school, he’d hug his mom, they’d go out for dinner at like an Applebee’s to celebrate, then he’d go to school the next day, be congratulated by a few people he didn’t know and that was it. It feels weird celebrating as part of a team. Even though over half of the team don’t like him very much, they’re all still happy to win, and in the heat of the moment, you don’t care how you feel about each other because you just won, you won together. Unless of course your Morgan in which case your smile is barely there, your eyebrows are still shit your pants terrifying and you only congratulate a select few of fellow demonic creatures. Or at least, that’s what Frank has convinced himself they are. Morgan is Satan and the other guys on the team are his demons from hell. 

“So, about that article,” Frank starts quietly.

“Frank, you don’t need to be pressured to do it, like, right now. It’s a busy week for you guys, I don’t expect it, or even want to write it until next week at the earliest. You’ve just won a game, and you’re going to win the one on Friday too, I can just feel it. I want to focus on that for now.”

Frank makes a face when Patrick says he thinks they’re going to win their next game, but he doesn’t say anything of it. They’re playing a much better team on Friday, and that’s only two days away, two night of sleep, which feels entirely too soon considering how exhausted Frank is right now, and how much more tired he’s sure to be tomorrow with the extra work he’s going to have to do and another long practice. Right now, Frank chooses not to think about how this game will likely be a fluke in their thoroughly unimpressive season, and decides to instead feel happy and proud of it. They probably will have a bad season, not much different from the seasons of their past, but right now, Frank’s just glad to be celebrating for once instead of grieving. 

Some tiny voice in the back of his mind is also overly happy to have finally given Gerard a reason to be proud of the team. Frank wants his contribution to this team to be anything to make Gerard smile the way he’s smiling right now. Gerard deserves all that Frank can give him, and he will put every fiber of his being into making sure this team gets as far as it can. He will do whatever if it makes Gerard happy even for a moment. This win is a step in the right direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was actually going to be a really, really, REALLY long chapter, but I decided to split this chapter in half so the good news is that you guys can expect another update this weekend! Yay!


	16. Life Is Simple In The Moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Hayley Williams is perfect and no one has trouble admitting it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this and the last chapter had been one chapter it would have been like 14,000 words guys, and this is already like the longest update ever.

“Oh gosh, fuck,” Frank frowns when he opens his phone first thing Friday morning to read the one text message he has. One text in the morning is more than Frank usually has given how few people like him. Every now and then, he’ll wake up to a text from Pete that is either fake deep or meant to be a joke, usually both simultaneously. It’s the kind of text you could only ever receive from Pete, or from a drunk person. Pete’s got the personality, energy, and appearance of the drug addict friend, but without the drugs. Ray is the mom friend. Frank doesn’t even know what you’d call Patrick, if Ray is the mom, then Patrick’s the grandma. Frank likes to think of himself as the gay cousin.

“What?” Ray asks.

“My, uh, my mom is coming to the game tonight,” Frank says, frowning as he reads her text. She only lives about an hour’s drive away from Armstrong, but her schedule is usually busier than even Frank’s, especially on Fridays when she rarely ever makes it home before about nine. Frank doesn’t hold that against her, he definitely doesn’t, because she attends games whenever she possibly can, which so far has been none this year. In high school, it wasn’t nearly as hard for her to come see him, given that the school was a two-minute drive away from their house or a five to ten-minute walk. Now, it’s quite a bit more of a commitment for her to drive down to Armstrong.

She still doesn’t entirely understand hockey, but she’s got the gist of it. She knows that when Frank hits the puck into the other guy’s net, that’s a good thing. Other than that, her knowledge is a bit fuzzy, but she is nothing if not supportive.

The problem is, Frank doesn’t want his mom to waste like half a day of her life to come see Frank’s team lose. He wants her to remember him as the hockey player who won almost every single game he played, not the guy who loses most of them. He wishes he could just hold onto his winning streak from high school and not have to force her to watch him inevitably lose.

“So, is that a bad thing?” Ray asks.

“Uh, I mean, no. I miss her a lot, but, like, I don’t want her to drive all that way to see me lose.”

“Oh, yeah, I get it,” Ray nods, and when Ray nods his hair nods too which makes it a sight to behold.

“She’ll be proud either way, I know she will, but I want to show her that what I’m doing is what I _should_ be doing, you know? She’s supportive of me now when I’m just playing hockey in school, but she’s not overly keen on me ‘wasting’ my potential by playing hockey for the rest of my life. I just want to show her that I should be doing it for the rest of my life, I can’t do that if she shows up to watch a game that I lose.” 

“Well, then here’s a plan,” Ray says, “let’s not lose tonight.”

“Oh, thank you so very much for your ingenious idea.”

“Happy to help,” Ray says, to which Frank responds by throwing a shirt at him which Ray catches, with the lightning quick reflexes he has acquired from being constantly bombarded with Frank throwing things at him.

“Fuck you,” Frank says, but Ray just shrugs, as if to say, ‘all in a day’s work.’

Friday is not one of his more difficult days as far as school goes, so much of it goes by quickly. Quickly enough that Frank has several hours before the game starts to hang out in the hockey rink and dwell on various things. Mostly he thinks about how awful it’s going to be when his mom gets here tonight and has to watch him lose. After all the pain and torment that this scholarship and college in general have put him through just for hockey and she’s going to have to watch Frank’s dream, which is hockey, all crumble apart in front of her very eyes. It’s going to suck.

Frank has been regretting coming to this school at all for the past few days. For some reason, it got worse after they had won that game on Wednesday. All the things that made him come here are starting to become less and less ideal right about now. He’s saving a lot of money, sure, but for what? If he joins the NHL he’ll be able to pay off his student debts by his first or second season alone. Why is he even here? The NHL isn’t going to be looking at Armstrong, surely not when there are so many better schools, schools that have a higher rate of NHL graduates. Schools like Boston, which have a far more numerous track record. In one year alone there’s probably about ten players across the NHL who came from Boston, compared to the measly one who has graduated from Armstrong and is currently in the NHL, joining the all-time total which is about the same as the _yearly_ total of Boston graduates in the NHL. Why on earth would Frank give up a spotlight like the one Boston gave him for money that he’ll likely be able to make up for in five years anyway? Professional hockey pays as exponentially as other sports, why did he ever leave the school that gave him that incomparable edge?

Now that Frank looks back on it, his decision was stupid. His decision was beyond stupid, it’s plain old moronic. He got into one of the best schools in the country and gave it all up for one of the worst. Why would he do that?

Frank has to remind himself that he is technically playing it safe. There is a chance that he will never make it into the NHL no matter what school he goes to. Yes, Boston would give him an edge that Armstrong will not, but what if it doesn’t matter what school he goes to, they don’t want him either way? It’s actually a statistically significant chance. It wouldn’t be inaccurate to say Frank is more likely not to make it then it is for him to make it. Yeah, he’s a fucking good player, but so are hundreds of other players out there. If college hockey is exclusive, the word hasn’t been invented yet for the exclusivity of the NHL. You don’t just make it on a whim. You’ve got to be one of the best hockey players in the world. Frank can’t bet with any real certainty that he is such. The additional money he’d be spending at Boston could end up being disastrous to his future if he doesn’t make it into the NHL. At Armstrong, if he doesn’t make it, he’ll at least be able to survive afterwards. 

But Frank wants to be in the NHL more than anything in the world. He wants to be a hockey player. He doesn’t necessarily want his name in lights or to have hundreds or even thousands of people wearing his jersey. That’s not what he wants. He just wants to be able to look back on his life and say that he touched the Stanley cup. He wants to have that, one of the greatest honors a human can possibly have, he wants that honor to belong to him.

Frank just feels regret; corrosive, painful _regret_. He’s given up so much to be here, and there’s a chance that it might have been too much.

However, Frank has gotten a lot out of Armstrong, and it’s only been three weeks. Frank didn’t have any friends at Boston. Boston was about four times bigger, with a bigger team, better players, all of which were quite a bit more egotistical, and didn’t give two shits about Frank. Frank may have been one of the best at Boston, that was clear from the get go, but he wasn’t really accepted into any circles there. The only person who would even casually talk to him was his roommate who didn’t even know how to play hockey. 

Here, though, Frank’s got more friends than he’s ever had in his entire life. He’s got like six times the number of friends he’s ever had. Now granted, six times one is six, but for Frank that is a lot of friends. 

He’s also one of the best players on this team. He was one of the best at Boston, but it’s far more obvious here. His skills are given a more prominent opportunity to shine.

Frank also has an enormous crush which can be construed as both a good and a bad thing. Boston had some damn fine looking dudes, but since none of them ever actually talked to him, he didn’t develop a crush on any of them, or at least, not one that he hasn’t easily forgotten since leaving. Gerard is something else. Gerard is made of stars, and sunlight. Gerard was probably made by God to torture Frank, show him what he can’t have, but he’s well worth it. 

At Armstrong, Frank’s got a nicer coach, and technically speaking a nicer assistant coach too, except for when they’re actually playing, but nevertheless, a good guy. The team isn’t as good by a long shot, but it’s components are more to Frank’s taste. The players, the coaches, even the town in which this school is. All of them are superior to Boston.

Then again, at Boston, no one hated Frank’s guts. On this team itself, he’s got about five people who would probably step on his fingers if he were hanging off the edge of a cliff, four who actually like him, and then the rest are somewhere in the middle. That still leaves Frank with below half of the team not hating him, which is not ideal. 

Frank’s not feeling very good about the game tonight. He can feel the defeat in his bones, which makes him more tired than he really is. He misses Boston, even if he kind of hated it there. He misses the fact that he was going somewhere there, but here he’s stuck in the sand. 

“Frank?” Gerard asks, walking into the lobby, holding a cup of coffee, because when the fuck isn’t he? Gerard is probably the only person in the world who drinks more coffee than a college student. 

“Hmm?”

“You look, like, super depressed. What’s up?”

Frank shrugs, and decides to admit the truth, “I think I made a mistake, Gerard.”

“What kind of mistake?”

“Coming here.”

“What do you mean?” Gerard asks, not sure he likes where this is headed. 

“I just… I’m not going to go anywhere coming from this place. Why on earth would the NHL look at me? No one cares about this godforsaken school. Why the fuck am I even here?”

“Oh,” Gerard says, frowning. That’s definitely not the kind of thing he wants to hear, especially not from arguably the best player on the team. 

“I just, I feel like I shouldn’t be here,” Frank says.

“Well,” Gerard sighs, and walks over to take a seat next to Frank. “Is it… is it too late to go back?” Gerard inquires, though he hates asking it. He’d probably cry for a solid three or more hours, then off and on for like eight months if Frank were to leave. He loves Frank being here, there’s literally no negatives, apart from the fact that Gerard’s heart aches a little bit, but that’s something he’s willing to put up with if it means Frank’s here. With Frank, the team is better. With Frank, Gerard smiles a whole lot more, and he actually has a friend in him, which makes Gerard’s life better. Gerard loves having Frank around, he’s funny, opinionated, interesting, and just an all-around great person. Frank makes the whole town a little bit brighter.

“I… I don’t know,” Frank replies. “I mean, I’ve already paid my tuition for Boston, technically. Or at least, for this first semester. I don’t know if it’s too late to go back to the school itself, but it’s probably too late for me to rejoin the team. When I gave up on that, that’s not something I can just take back. When I left, probably about fifty guys all wanted, and were good enough, to take my place. I gave up on something monumental, something I doubt I can get back.”

“I’m sorry,” Gerard says, and he kind of is. He’s not happy that Frank wants to leave, but he feels dreadful because of the fact that Frank does. Frank’s emotions are contagious, or at least, for Gerard they are. Gerard would hate to see Frank leave, but if it’s what he wants then Gerard will encourage him to do whatever. Gerard hopes to be his friend for as long as he possible can be, and if Frank decides to leave this school and go back to Boston, even if it would break his heart clean in two, he’d still tell Frank to follow his dreams. 

“Why?” Frank asks. “You should be the last person in the world who would want me to leave.”

“Well, yeah. I mean, if you left, we’d plummet. We’d probably lose more morale than we can afford to. I don’t even know if the team would be able to make it through to the end of the season, we might just have to pull out. But, like, Frank, this team isn’t your life. You don’t need to let us ruin what you want. If what you want is to go back to Boston, I’ll encourage you to, because it’s your life. It’s not mine to live, you’re the one who’s going to have to face your decisions.”

“Ugh,” Frank sighs, “you’re a fucking asshole.”

“What?” Gerard asks, surprised, because he thought he was being nice.

“You heard me. You’re an enormous asshole. I’m sitting here basically shitting on all of your dreams and there you are, just _encouraging_ me to do so. You should be punching me in the face or pouring hot coffee over my head, not trying to talk me into it.”

“I mean, it’s your life, don’t let other people live through it,” Gerard replies.

“There you go again, dick weed.” 

“Oh man, I can’t win with you,” Gerard says, and Frank laughs, which makes Gerard feel a little better. Frank’s laughter is like if you could bottle up that rainy day by a fireplace feeling. That one you get when you’re watching a movie or sitting by a fire while a storm rages outside, wrapped up in a blanket and protected from the world around you. He’s like that feeling of when someone makes you laugh, like really _laugh_ , the kind of blistering, gut tingling, almost painful, guttural laugh. Frank is like that feeling of when you fall asleep in someone’s arms.

“I don’t think they’ll have me back,” Frank says. “Even if that is what I _want_ , and I don’t know that it is, it’s not what I can _have_.”

“Maybe you could go back next year?” Gerard says. “You’d probably have to get accepted all over again, and it may not be easy to win them back, but with the way you play, they’d have to be idiots to say no to you. They’d just treat you like an incoming freshman, I bet.”

“Do you think so?” Frank asks. 

“I don’t see why not,” Gerard says. “I know this school is way different to Boston, we’re not nearly as nitpicky, but like, they know how good you play, they let you in once, didn’t they? Why would they say no to you if it’s a new season? I guess it makes sense that they wouldn’t want you back right now, but when it’s a new season, schools just take the best hockey players they can get, no matter the circumstances.”

“I don’t know,” Frank says, but he’s starting to like the way Gerard’s thinking. He _could_ go back in a year. It might actually end up being what he does. He doesn’t want to make any decisions yet, but if he were to go back, waiting a year would be the way to do it. Boston might still have him back, and if they do, then his road to the NHL will become a lot easier. He’ll be switching from a dirt path to a well paved road. It’s a possibility. Now that Gerard’s brought it up, it seems like an ingenious idea. Frank shouldn’t have left that school in the first place, but if they would let him back in, it may be a way to erase the mistake of coming here. 

It’s something to consider.

“You should do whatever you feel is right,” Gerard says, somberly. What Gerard wants is not as important as what Frank wants. Gerard wants Frank, wants him close, wants him on the team, wants Frank to be his. But if he can’t have any of those things, then the next best thing is for Frank to do what _he_ wants. Really, it’s only Gerard’s selfishness that prevents him from liking what’s best for him. 

Gerard is selfish, of course he is. If Frank is close, he gets to spend time with him. If Frank is on the team, they become so much closer to winning a title. If Frank is here, there’s the faintest glimmer of a chance, even though it’s still probably nonexistent, but something of a chance that Frank might someday love him back. That last goal is nothing more than a dream, but in his own mind it makes sense. Frank’s never going to fall for him if he’s a hundred miles away playing for another team, in more ways than one. Here, Gerard can keep an eye on him, be as irresistible as he is capable of being. 

Gerard doesn’t want him to leave, in fact, Frank leaving would probably be the worst thing that’s ever happened to him aside from when he quit hockey. But it’s Frank’s life, and Gerard knows that he’s going to have to accept and live with that fact. 

“Gerard,” Frank says, taking a deep breath and then looking into his eyes, which is a mistake and it makes Frank’s words stop in his throat. What he wouldn’t give to kiss this boy right here and now, and just really fucking go for it. Like, he’d probably push Gerard up against a wall and climb him like a tree if he could, but since he can’t, looking deeply into those eyes of his makes everything so much worse.

“Yeah?” Gerard says, feeling much the same as Frank, because those big brown eyes are going to be the death of him without a doubt. 

“You’re a… a, uh, oh you know,” Frank says, and then brushes off whatever he had been about to say.

“An enormous asshole, I believe were your words?” Gerard offers.

“No, not that,” Frank shakes his head, “I mean, like, you’re a really, really… great, person. You’re supportive when you shouldn’t be, and you’re always so nice to me, without a particularly good reason for why. You’re just decent. More than decent. Amazing.”

“Amazing enough to make you stay?” Gerard asks, hopefully.

“That’s a question for another day,” Frank replies, because he is a little too conflicted to even begin to make any plans like that right now. Right now, he needs to focus on the game tonight, and deal with the fact that his mom is going to be there. 

As much as Frank wants to spend some more time with Gerard, he decides it’s not a good idea. Gerard’s eyes are a little droopy and his smile isn’t entirely there, which means that Frank needs to escape the doubt that Gerard instills inside of him. Frank makes an excuse about needing to study, and then runs off in the direction of Pete’s dorm with the hope that maybe Pete’s absolutely ridiculous personality will be able to distract him from all the new emotions inside of him, which are joining the dread and regret he’d already had. Gerard keeps fucking him up.

Pete, who senses something is wrong, but doesn’t want to make Frank uncomfortable by asking him what, wastes time by forcing Frank to play board games. It kind of works, if he’s being honest. Frank wins most of the games, even the ones that Pete says he’s good at, and it’s clear that Pete’s not even throwing the games, he’s literally just that shitty at Clue. Pete’s about as good at board games as Wil Wheaton.

The time spent playing games is enough to bring them to a place where they need to head down to the locker room, but Frank only further dreads what’s about to come. The games had taken his mind off of it for a while, but now that worry and guilt is back at full force. He can feel it in his very bones that they’re going to lose. It’s a negativity that he tries never to let himself feel, but it’s made all the worse given the audience he knows is going to be watching. His mom being there is just going to make everything he feels so much more awful. 

He changes into his gear, and chats with some of the other guys for a few minutes. Gerard is nowhere to be seen. He hasn’t actually seen Gerard since he ran away from him earlier in the afternoon, which Frank hopes is just a coincidence and not an indicator as to how much he hurt Gerard’s feelings with his talk of wanting to leave. Frank doesn’t dare mention his internal debate to any of the guys, because he doesn’t want them to think he’s abandoning them until he himself actually knows if he is. He probably won’t make any solid decision on that for several months, so he need not worry anyone more than Gerard. One person is enough, especially considering how depressed it made the one person that he _did_ tell. 

When it becomes time for their warm up, Frank takes the ice after the rest of the team, and he of course, searches around the rink to spot his mother, who’s probably here by now, or will be soon. He spots Gerard first, sitting on their bench, not looking entirely invested in what’s going on around him, and with that same thinly veiled morose look on his face. Frank doesn’t focus too much on this, because he knows it’ll hurt him to know how much he hurt the guy he likes. 

Frank doesn’t need more than a few seconds to find his mom, he’d recognize his mother from up in an airplane. Also, it helps that there’s only like ten people in total in the stands so far, and this number is likely to only go up a couple dozen when the game actually starts. 

Frank immediately notices that something is off when he looks at the person sitting right beside his mother, who’s having friendly conversation with her. Frank stops on the ice for a few seconds, then moves a few inches over to get a good look at the girl’s face. He has to think for about a fraction of a second to place where he’s seen her face before, but it doesn’t take long for him to figure it out. 

Frank’s not sure if he’s excited or petrified by the presence of her, but he knows that at the very least what he needs to do right now is skate over and say hi. 

Ignoring the judgmental glare that Gerard is cutting into the back of his head because of Frank not warming up, Frank skates the distance between himself and where his mother sits, which is near to the wall, as it’s not very hard to get a front row seat to a hockey game that no one else is attending.

“Frankie!” His mom says the second she sees him, and Frank blushes, because not living with his mom has meant that he hasn’t been called Frankie in nearly two months, which is quite a long time for him. She’s the only one who’s ever called him Frankie, and he’d really like to keep it that way. It’s almost been a relief.

He wishes he could hug her, he honestly misses his mom more than he would care to admit, but the glass is in the way of them, which is probably good because he’d get so much shit from the guys for hugging his mom. 

“Hey, ma,” Frank says, mostly in passing, because he turns his attention instead to the girl he hasn’t seen in about five years. “Hayley?” He knows that his mother is more important, because of the fact that she is his mother, but he sees her way more often, and talks to her at least twice a week.

“Hey Frank!” She says, looking down at him excitedly. Frank may be the shortest person he knows, but he is at least taller than Hayley. However, when she’s a few feet above him because of the elevated seating, it doesn’t change his perspective of the world much, because he’s used to being shorter than everyone.

“What are you doing here?” Frank asks, because Hayley left town several years before he ever even got to show her how much she’d taught him.

Hayley was Frank’s neighbor when he was a kid. She’s the girl who taught him to skate. Everything he knows, he learned it from watching her. She never played hockey, but she did sort of introduce Frank to that as well. Part of him wonders if she knew that he would be embarrassed about figure skating, and that’s why she watched hockey with him. Frank’s never asked her about it, because he hasn’t seen her in a while, close to five years. She won a few gold medals, nothing overly prestigious, they were only statewide competitions, but then she moved away, and Frank hasn’t seen her since. He’s kind of wanted to show her what he’s become, let her know that he actually took what she taught him to heart, but he’s also a little bit terrified of her judging him for not being as good as her. He’s never going to see himself as any better than she is. To him, she’s the best in the world, even if he’s the only person who recognizes it. 

Before she left though, Frank told her that he quit figure skating, because no one could know that secret apart from his mom. He’s kind of avoided her since then, which meant that he never got a proper goodbye. It’s been a long time since he last saw Hayley, and an even longer time still since he’s felt the courage to look her in the eye.

Hayley is as gorgeous as she usually is, which is to say, very much so. She’s always been that pretty, to Frank’s knowledge. Growing up so close to her, it’s a wonder he’s gay.

“I was in town,” she says, “your mom told me you still played hockey, and I couldn’t say no to actually getting to see you play! I’ve missed you, Frank, and I can’t wait to see how far you’ve come.”

“I, I mean, we’re not very good,” Frank says, blushing. He doesn’t want his mom to see him lose, but if there’s anything that could be worse than that, it’s Hayley seeing him lose. This is the girl who taught him how to fucking skate in the first place, if he fails in front of her, he’ll feel like he’s let her down. It’ll almost be a reflection on her if he’s not good enough.

“You won your last game!” Hayley says, and Frank wishes she didn’t know that, because he doesn’t want her to have high expectations. If she expects more from him, that’ll just mean that she’ll fall from a lot higher when they lose.

“Well, we played against a pretty bad team,” Frank replies.

“You’re just being modest,” his mom says, “Frankie’s the best hockey player in the whole world.”

“You’re just saying that ‘cause you’re my mom,” Frank says, and they all know it’s the truth. Frank may be a good player, but he’s certainly not the _best_.

“I never claimed to be unbiased,” she shrugs off. 

“Frank!” A voice yells from behind him, and Frank turns to see Gerard giving him the stink eye for socializing when he should be practicing for the game which is actually going to happen soon. They’ve only got ten minutes to warm up, and Frank’s already wasted about two minutes blabbing, which is way more than just frowned upon, especially by Gerard. Gerard is already at an uncomfortable standing with Frank because of earlier, the last thing he should be doing is pissing him off.

“Oh, you should go,” Hayley says, trying to shoo him away when she sees Gerard who definitely looks pissed off.

“Yeah, he’ll tear my head off for sure,” Frank says.

“We’ll talk after the game, though, okay?” Hayley asks. Frank sort of nods and sort of shrugs. He’d like to catch up with her, but he’s also a little bit nervous about making any promises when he doesn’t know how the game will turn out for him. He’ll have a lot of trouble even being near her if they lose. Hayley doesn’t deserve to have to watch him lose, she deserves more from him.

Frank skates away from them, does a few laps around the rink to reacquaint himself with the familiar feel of the ice below his feet. He glances at Gerard, who is still staring daggers at him. Gerard is in a very precarious mood, so it’s best not to tempt fate.

“Dude, is that your girl?” Ray asks when Frank stops in the same general vicinity of where Ray is stood. Ray is looking across what is practically the entire rink to gawk at her. Hayley does have a face worthy of gawking.

“What?” Frank asks.

“The girl! You know, the one you like!” 

“What?” Frank asks, looking petrified at the mere question. It turns him bright fucking pink too, because he can’t even imagine Ray thinking of them like that. Hayley’s quite a bit older than him, and also, way too fucking good for him. She also feels a little bit more like a sister than anything else. That and Frank’s gay, but still. Frank shakes his head animatedly saying, “No, no, she’s not, no!”

“She is!” Ray says, “you’re blushing, oh my god. Can’t say I blame you though, I mean gosh, who wouldn’t be in love with a girl like that?”

“No!” Frank says, getting even pinker which is impressive because he doesn’t have any skin left that’s not blushed. He actually feels himself growing warm, and feels like his hockey gear is an oven, because he’s starting to heat up more than he does when he attends a five-hour hockey practice. It can’t be healthy, he looks like an angry beet. 

Gerard, who’s standing directly behind the two of them in his spot in the box, feels something a little bit like fire and a little bit like loathing at the conversation he shouldn’t be eavesdropping on. Gerard feels like he could totally punch someone right about now. Either Frank or, the girl he likes or Ray, or just whoever happens to be standing next to him. 

Gerard is already in a mood, this is definitely _not_ helping. He’s pissed off at Frank’s lack of practicing right now, sad that Frank might be leaving, and now ragingly jealous of a girl who he doesn’t know. It’s made all the worse by how fucking gorgeous she is. Gerard knows it’s selfish of him, but he’d really prefer it if whoever Frank likes or dates is either ugly or an asshole, because it means that Gerard will know he’s better. When his competition is a girl like _that_ , it just sucks. It’s not a competition, though, when he’s not even a contender. 

It’s not like Gerard didn’t see this coming. Frank is an attractive guy in college on a sports team. Even if it’s not a good sports team, ‘attractive college jock’ is a giant magnet for pretty girls. It’s probably the most perfect a boy can be. Also, Frank’s a hormonal teenager, and yeah, Gerard’s not gonna lie, that girl is prettier than almost anyone Gerard’s ever seen, but that doesn’t stop him from hating her with every fiber of his being. He also kind of wants to _be_ her, because for Frank to have a crush on him would be everything in the world and more to him. 

Gerard doesn’t think he’s ever been this jealous of anyone in his life. He also doesn’t remember liking someone as much as likes Frank, which would explain a few things. It’s probably cause most of the guys on the hockey team are these big bulky brainless ones, all of whom with the personality of a piece of cheese. Frank’s got this rich personality and this really fantastic face, and the cutest smile, and honestly if it’s anyone’s fault that Gerard likes him it’s Frank’s. If Frank hadn’t been so beautiful and adorable and sweet, none of this would’ve happened. Fuck Frank. Literally. 

That doesn’t do much to console Gerard however. He cannot focus on anything during the rest of the warmup. His eyes just keep glancing at the girl across the rink, and then to Frank. What does she have that Gerard doesn’t? It pisses him off. He’s not in a particularly good mood when the team all crowd back into the locker room ten minutes later. He feels like he’s ready to get into a fencing match or something, or offer Frank’s mom a bunch of goats for his hand. Or carry a pig up a mountain.

Gerard even struggles to maintain focus when the game actually starts. It’s about three minutes into the clock before he even realizes that they’ve already started. He actually has to shake himself out of his trance in order to tune his brain into the game, which thankfully is still nothing to nothing. 

Gerard gets distracted a few more times, though, thinking about how much he wishes things were different. He wishes Frank didn’t want to leave, wishes he wasn’t crazy about Frank, wishes Frank were gay, wishes he were a girl so Frank could be attracted to him, wishes so many illogical things. Anything that would get him Frank. He’s up for literally anything if it means that Frank might be attracted to him, even for a second. 

Gerard would be so good to him, honestly no one else would ever treat Frank better than he would. Frank doesn’t know what he’s missing out on. Gerard’s missing out on more, but still, he would be the best boyfriend by a mile if Frank were his.

Frank feels more eyes than usual on him, which makes the game a little more difficult. He feels so many people watching him, feels his mom, Hayley, even Gerard, and probably everyone else in the rink because he’s the one with the puck. It actually kind of drives him more than usual though, because knowing how many people are watching him only makes him try harder. He wants to prove something to all of these people, everyone in the room who’s watching him, he wants them to be watching him for a reason.

Frank passes the puck to Pete, repositions himself in a better angle, and Pete gives the puck back with perfect timing. Frank doesn’t think too hard about it before he’s shooting and praying that he’s about to prove himself to every single pair of eyes on him. 

A moment later, Frank feels that same elated feeling you get when you get a hole in one on a golf course. The puck misses the goal, but it bumps the inside of the goaltender’s skate, and unfortunately for the other team, this causes it to ricochet into the net. Frank throws his hands up into the air at the sight of it, unabashedly happy to have the first goal of the night under his belt. It’s the first game the Green Knights have played this season where they have scored the first goal in the game. 

It surprises the other team, quite visibly. They’re one of the better teams in the division so far this season, though for the life of him, Frank cannot actually remember where they’re from. He knows they’re one of those little teams that would probably be on everyone’s radar if they came from a school like Harvard, but since it’s a little rich kid school they’re practically as unknown as Armstrong, neither of which are in the big ten. Nationally ranked, Armstrong would probably come in around fifty-five or so out of sixty. 

Nevertheless, the other team is a good one, and they definitely should not have been scored on at all by the Green Knights, let alone in the first ten minutes of the first period.

Play continues when Frank takes a seat on the bench a few moments later, feeling particularly proud of himself when he looks up at the board to see the bright red one next to his team’s name. If anything, at least Hayley and his mom will be able to see that Frank scored, or at least, kind of scored, the first goal of the game. It would be a better feeling if he’d hit the puck directly into the net, but he’ll take the credit wherever he can get it.

There aren’t any more goals in the first period, which can be construed as a good thing, when Frank realizes that they’re technically winning. That’s sure not to be the truth for long, but they’re winning now and that counts for something when the next period starts. It actually pumps a little bit of confidence into the team when they get out there. Even Mikey, who is the most pessimistic hockey player that the world has ever seen, actually looks a little bit more energized when he’s out there. It says something, quite a bit really, about how good of a team they’re actually capable of being if they believe in themselves. Being a goal ahead really gives them that feeling.

Frank’s not on the ice when it happens, but about halfway into the second period, Travie hits a goal cleanly into the net, between the knees of the goaltender. It’s a little bit surreal, it’s one of those goals that even a blind person could tell is a goal, but it also doesn’t seem like it actually just happened, because it means that they’re winning by two, which just doesn’t seem possible for this team.

Frank doesn’t have time to congratulate Travie after the goal, because he’s darting onto the ice a second later, ready for the play to begin again. Maybe they’re just skating on a thin thread of confidence because not a minute passes before Pete and Morgan make one of the most peculiar goals Frank’s ever seen. Pete takes a shot on the left, the opposing goaltender pushing it away, so eager to get the puck away from the goal that it flies cleanly into Morgan’s stick who shoots it directly back at the net, to the right of the goaltender who’s left it practically empty after the other save. 

It’s a little bit ridiculous if you ask Frank, almost exactly midway through the game and they are now beating a team which is definitely better than them three to zero. _Three_ to _zero_! This team probably hasn’t had that happen in like five years. They probably haven’t even won a game by more than one since Frank was still in middle school. He’s a little in awe.

Frank’s excitement doesn’t ebb away, and it’s infectious. In fact, the entire team seems to only get more inspired as the game goes on. Ray blocks so many shots that Frank can’t even keep track of them, and neither it seems can the commentator. Ray’s unstoppable. Frank, Pete and Morgan are pretty deadly too, as when it comes to their turns on the ice, they don’t give the other team more than a few seconds with the puck at all. Frank takes a couple shots, both of them blocked unfortunately, but they get control of the puck so quickly after each that he just makes another. He’s on a roll, he’s wearing down the goalie enough that when they make a line change, there’s a good chance the goalie will be too worn out to stop another goal.

Frank’s proven correct when he switches with the next line, and Frank sees something that he’s sure he hasn’t seen before. Mikey, who Frank would probably say is one of the weakest players on the team, even despite how much he likes the guy, actually makes a fucking goal. Mikey Way, the guy who Gerard yells at more than probably anybody else, the guy who struggles to make a goal during _warmups_ , the guy who Frank constantly wonders why he’s even on the team, _Mikey fucking Way_ , actually makes an actual goal. It’s practically unassisted as well, the other two guys are of no help to him at all.

Gerard, whose been in the business of moping around about the whole Frank thing for most of the game, even despite their three, and now four goal lead, goes fucking bananas when Mikey scores his goal. He’s jumping up and down, looking around excitedly at all the guys on the bench behind him, making sure they know that Mikey’s his brother, repeating it over and over again. 

When Mikey jumps over the wall, Gerard hugs him, maybe a little bit too hard, because Mikey has to physically push him away after a few seconds, and then put his hand to his chest as he tries to breathe, all the while Frank watching over at the two of them looking amused. Gerard can be really hard on him, way harder than Mikey really deserves, and Frank knows it’s because they’re brothers, but still, it’s really nice seeing Gerard so proud of him after all the time that Frank has seen of Gerard being a bit of a dick to him. 

It makes Frank’s heart hurt a little bit more, because he can’t fucking take it with Gerard. Gerard is so stupidly adorable, and he’s such a dork, and he’s so excited that his own brother made a goal, and his reaction to it is probably the only thing that could make Frank feel better about this game than he already does. He went into this game feeling like shit, but now here is with almost certainty that they’re going to win. There’s a little less than ten minutes still on the clock of the second period and they are now winning four to zero which is unheard of for this team. Frank isn’t even accustomed to it, because he usually dominated other teams back in high school, but rarely by this much. 

Frank looks over at Hayley and his mom, who both look excited, and Frank smiles widely when he realizes how well this game is going, and how awesome it is that this is the game that they chose to attend. He actually starts to look forward to talking to Hayley later if this is the game that he’s going to be talking to her about, because this game is going _great_. They’re sweeping the floor with the other team, and Frank actually scored one of the goals. 

Frank also looks at Patrick, who’s on the same side of the rink as them, which means he has to crane his neck to spot him. Patrick is watching the game intently, scribbling things every now and then onto the yellow notepad in his lap. Patrick looks over, as if feeling Frank’s eyes on him, and they make eye contact for a fraction of a second before Frank has to look away. Frank remembers Patrick’s prediction the other night about how they were going to win this game, and he’s excited to admit that Patrick might have been right, and he was wrong. He was so sure this game would turn sour, but here he is and it’s going amazingly. 

Frank doesn’t have time to think too much on it, because he’s on the ice ten seconds later. It’s an uneventful shift, nothing exciting happens, good or bad, and he switches with Mikey’s line about a minute later. Mikey actually looks like a completely different player on the ice the next time he’s up, like he’s been possessed by an actually good hockey player, which is something new for Mikey’s playing abilities. It makes Frank wonder if Mikey has always been that good and it’s his bad attitude which has lead Frank to believe that he sucks. 

By the time that the second period ends, the score hasn’t changed, which is an incredibly good thing for them to start out the third and last period under. Starting the final third of the game being up by four is probably the best situation to be in, especially for this team. When they’re up by that much, it actually makes them work harder, which is counter to what most hockey teams do when they’re winning. In the NHL, it’s not uncommon to see one team dominate in the first half, but then grow so pompous and arrogant from their standing that their whole team is weakened by too much confidence. Frank’s seen teams pull the rug out from other team’s countless times because of things like that. 

This team is not like that though. This team only becomes more fueled when they’re winning, and he thinks it’s because they’re so used to losing that not losing means that they actually try harder because they want to retain their score. This team cannot afford to have circles skated around them, which means they’re only more on guard when they’re winning.

By the end of the game, it proves to be enough. The opposing team, who seem to have adopted the usual Armstrong attitude, which is to say, give up when you’re down, only score one measly goal, and it’s in the last three minutes of the clock. It’s not even a goal they should be particularly proud of, it just slips in sort of by accident. It’s not enough, not nearly enough. When the horn sounds for the end of the game, the Green Knights have won by three, in one of their most successful games of the past five years. 

Frank, who had originally dreaded the idea of hanging out with Hayley later, so sure that he was going to lose the game, now feels like it had been his idea in the first place. He feels like he’s just put five years back into his life, like he’s had a majority of the stress in his body sucked right out of him.

Frank’s so excited at the end of the game that he skates over to talk to his mom and Hayley. Hayley congratulates him, teases him for trying to insinuate they were bad after the demonstration she’s just witnessed that contradicts that. Frank really wants to wrap his arms around her or his mom, mostly his mom, because Frank’s always been a bit of a mama’s boy.

Gerard, who only a moment ago, had been celebrating with the rest of the team about the game, which they had more than deserved, suddenly feels like a bomb has dropped in his stomach when he looks over at Frank. Gerard was so excited, part of him might still be, only it’s far more overshadowed. It’s not even what you would call jealousy at this point, it’s just sadness. Gerard doesn’t even think he’s jealous of the girl anymore, he’s just so sad that that it’s not him who Frank likes. It’s awful, it’s shitty, the pain of it is stronger than the elation of winning the game. He just wants Frank so goddamn much, wants him like a man lost in the desert wants water. It’s an indescribable, unspeakable pain that is all throughout his body, not just in his heart. 

He wants Frank to be over here, celebrating their victory with him, maybe hugging him again and severely fucking up Gerard’s sleep patterns like the last time they hugged. Gerard tastes something bitter in his mouth, and craves for Frank to make it go away.

To make matters worse, Gerard remembers how Frank might leave. He might be leaving as early as the end of the year, and with only a season spent with Gerard, less in fact considering that he started late. Gerard can’t fathom the pain of him leaving, especially considering how much closer to each other they’re sure to be eight months from now. Frank is on his way to becoming Gerard’s best friend, if he does become his best friend, Gerard doesn’t know how he’s going to manage with him leaving. He wishes Frank had never shared his uncertainty with him. Gerard thinks he’d rather be abruptly surprised by Frank’s departure than have to live with the inevitability of it for nearly a year. 

Gerard’s body has a physical reaction to it. His shoulders sag, his face falls, and his eyes seem to grow darker as he looks over at Frank who’s so happy and excited, but not with him. He wants to be that too, he wants to be celebrating and hugging the rest of the guys, patting his brother on the back for scoring a goal, grinning back at Pete whose face probably couldn’t get any brighter than it is now. Gerard wants that so much. But what he wants more is Frank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment, these last two chapters were a lot of fucking work, but hopefully worth it!


	17. Normal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All that I love, and all that I need.

Frank rushes out of the locker room once he’s finished taking a quick shower and changing into his street clothes. He’s aware that the other guys are all planning on celebrating, and they’re taking the party to the fanciest place they know, which is the local Olive Garden. Frank would be amiss to say no to the invitation, but he’s going to try to drag Hayley along if he can. He has a lot of catching up to do, and also a lot of celebrating to do as well.

Gerard watches Frank leave the locker room, his arms crossed and some definite emotions etched clearly on his face. He looks incredibly pissed, at who, no one is entirely sure, not even Gerard, but he is not as festive as the others are about the total annihilation of the other team. Everyone is all smiles and high fives, and then there’s Pete who’s singing We Are the Champions really fucking loudly, and Pete can’t sing so it’s an _experience_ for everyone. 

Meanwhile, Patrick is sitting outside on one of the benches, listening to what is clearly Pete singing quite loudly which is audible even from outside the locker room. He’s wishing desperately for Pete to come out, and wishing even more desperately that he could kiss his boyfriend when he does. They probably won’t get the chance to until way later tonight, because Pete, as team captain, cannot under any circumstances miss out on the team celebration. Pete can’t miss it even if he gets abducted by aliens.

When Frank does finally leave the locker room he finds Patrick sitting about five feet away from his mom and Hayley, looking very awkward, which is to say, very much himself, as people walk through the entrance and out into the night outside. There’s not a whole lot of people still filing out of the rink, but enough so that Patrick shrinks into an even smaller form than he already is which is saying something.

Frank nods at Patrick, but goes first to his mom, because he sees Patrick every day and he’s not likely to be offended by that. His mom, before anything, gets this excited look in her eyes, and then grabs Frank, hugging him to her tightly. It’s a mix between an ‘I’ve missed you so much since you’ve been away at college’ and an ‘I’m so proud of you for winning’ hug, which means that Frank might actually have cracked a rib or two in the embrace. 

“Mom, little tight, need air,” Frank says, and she only let’s go a few seconds after.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “it seems like it’s been years since I last saw you!”

“It’s been like two months, ma,” Frank replies.

“Which, for a mother, is like twenty years!”

“I’m sure,” Frank says, shaking his head, and turning a little pink at the fact that Patrick is watching his mother baby him. He does miss her though, that’s not a question. Frank’s homesick and depressed. He really fucking misses his moms cooking, not like this school has bad food or anything, but fuck, if it’s not made by her it’s inherently worse. He also misses the way his house smells, which isn’t something you ever realize you miss until it’s not there anymore. It smells like his mom, and he just really misses her, but he doesn’t want that to be so obvious. 

He wants her to just take him back home with her, except for the fact that he also wants to hang out with his friends tonight. He probably could talk her into letting him stay the weekend, but then he’d have to miss out on the celebration tonight. He’d also have to miss out on ideally spending time with Gerard which is his plan for the weekend. Frank does plan to spend a weekend at home sooner or later though, because he’ll be able to spend practically every single second of it not spent sleeping, figure skating, because no one at the rink near his house will know who he is. Eventually, he will go home for a couple of days, but not this weekend. 

“You did so well, Frankie, I’m so proud.”

“I know,” Frank says, not to sound arrogant, but Frank could draw a stickman and she’d be proud of him. “I’m really glad you could come, you know. I didn’t expect this game to turn out the way it did, but I’m glad you were here for it.”

“Me too! You’re doing so well, Frankie, I can’t believe how far you’ve come in just a few weeks, but you really looked so good out there.”

“I really like it here,” Frank says, and it’s not a lie. He does really like it here. So far, he’s never felt more comfortable in his own life as he does here. Not in high school, not at Boston, not when he was in fucking elementary school. Frank’s got friends here, and quite a heavy layer of stress, but it’s not unmanageable. He’s also got someone who knows his secret, which has really comforted him over the past week. He hasn’t had much time to think about it too much, or talk to Patrick about it, but it’s very calming just knowing that someone else knows. 

“Yeah? Not a mistake?” She asks.

“Right now, I think this is where I need to be,” Frank says, smiling. He doesn’t want to worry his mother with any technicalities quite yet. Maybe he will leave next year, that’s a definite possibility. Until that happens, though, he needn’t worry his mom about it. 

“Frankie, I would really love to stay, but-”

“It’s okay, I’m not mad,” Frank says, honestly. His mom has a life too, it’s unrealistic of him to expect her to stay here just for him.

“So, you don’t mind if I start heading home?” she asks.

“Ma, I’m just glad you came.”

“So am I,” she says, with a large grin, and Frank can definitely see himself in her face when she smiles. Frank was lucky to have inherited her smile, his is not nearly as vibrant as hers, but then again, he’s biased. 

Frank hugs her one more time, tells her he loves her, and then feels his heart break only a little bit as she starts to make for the door. He can’t wait to see her again. Maybe next time he’ll get to talk to her more, but seeing her at all is a mercy on his heart. 

Frank then turns his attention to Hayley, who he hadn’t forgotten was there, but he’s got a ladder of priorities and his mother is at the top of that list.

“And you!” Frank says, “I’m so glad you’re here!” 

“I’m so glad to be here!” Hayley replies back, brightness emanating from her voice and smile. 

Frank makes to hug her, and it’s a lot less bone busting as hugging his mom. He’s really missed her, if he’s being entirely honest. Hayley is the closest thing in the world he ever had to a friend before he came here, and seeing her now is unbelievable. She’s grown a bit since Frank last saw her, not upwardly of course, she’s still the tiny thing she always was, but she’s definitely looking older. Not even older necessarily as she is just more grown into her own features. She was pretty when Frank last saw her, that was never a doubt, but she has somehow gotten way more attractive in the years they’ve spent apart. 

Unfortunately for Gerard, he happens to exit the locker room right as Frank is hugging Hayley. His spirits, which were already at an all-time low, plummet further, further, until they crash with a loud bang at rock bottom. Gerard’s hatred for the girl Frank’s with flourishes again quiet violently and he feels his own fists clench together, and his teeth grit too. 

Gerard grumbles a bit to himself and then walks over to sit next to Patrick to attempt to take his mind off of his raging jealousy. He can’t quite eavesdrop on them, what with the bustling of people everywhere, the sounds of a hundred different voices all coming from every which way of the building. He doesn’t know if he’d want to listen in on them, though, he’s sure it wouldn’t make him feel any better. He’d probably just get angrier, or more envious. 

“How’ve you been, though?” Frank asks, “What have you been up to?”

“Oh, you know, here and there, doing this and that. I’ve moved back to town recently, though,” she says.

“Really?” Frank asks.

“Yeah, missed it. You can only be away for so long before you gotta go back home,” she says, with a shrug. “But look at you! Last time I saw you, you were just starting high school!”

“Oh gosh, has it been that long?” Frank asks.

“It has. You’re so good, Frank! It’s unbelievable to see how far you’ve come,” she smiles, widely, “I remember teaching you how to skate, and now here you are! Oh my gosh, it’s hard to believe you’re this big.”

“Shut up,” Frank says, laughing, and blushing again. 

“Alright, well I guess you’re not that much taller. You’ve only grown about an inch or two.”

“Seriously shut up,” Frank groans. 

“It’s just really great getting to see you in action out there. You’re really doing the best with the skills you have. I’m so glad you’re still skating. You have such a talent, so much more than I remembered, I don’t think anyone could take their eyes off of you out there,” Hayley says. 

“I’ve got a good team,” Frank says, “kind of. I mean, some of them are assholes, but like, most of them are really great.”

“You’re the best out there, though,” Hayley says, with a cheeky grin. 

Frank rolls his eyes, and then turns to look around. He sees Gerard sitting a few feet away with Patrick and gets an idea. “Hey, I should introduce you to some of the guys.”

Frank walks over to the two of them without hearing Hayley’s response. He looks at Gerard, who looks back at him, but quickly breaks eye contact when he actually looks at Gerard’s face which he cannot stare directly at without feeling cement fill his stomach slowly but surely.

“Guys, this is Hayley,” Frank says, gesturing to her. “Hayley and I were neighbors, she taught me how to skate. She’s the best skater I know, actually.”

“Hi,” Patrick says, in a friendly enough way, while Gerard just stares with the blankest expression he can muster on his face, which is still quite an angry looking one. 

“This is Patrick, he’s, well, he’s not on the team per say, but he’s the writer of the hockey section in the school newspaper,” Frank says. “And this is Gerard, who’s our assistant coach.”

Just as Frank says that, Pete and Travie pile out of the locker room, followed by a couple of other guys, not the ones who Frank is particularly friendly with though.

“Oh, and this is Pete, and that’s Travie,” Frank says, then repeats Hayley’s introduction for them. 

“Oh, he’s actually told us about you!” Pete says. “Figure skater, right?”

“Yeah,” she nods, smiling. Hayley doesn’t have any trouble making friends or getting along with people. Hayley could probably tame a rabid dog and become its friend if she really wanted to. She’s just really likeable, and also gorgeous. An argument could be made that she’s perfect in every way.

“I’m not really a big fan of figure skating, honestly, but if you taught Frank how to skate, you must be something special,” Pete says, because he’s not going to tell her he hates figure skating directly to her face.

“Oh, you’ve just never watched the right kind of figure skating,” she says.

“I suppose anything is possible,” Pete says, with a shrug, though he doubts that. Figure skating really irks him. To Pete, figure skating trivializes the effort and hard work that he puts into hockey. Pete’s of the opinion that hockey is more difficult, even though that is definitely not the case. 

“I hate figure skating,” Gerard says, quite rudely, and with a heaping amount of bitterness in his voice.

Hayley looks surprised by his tone, and evaluates his expression for a moment, before determining that she can’t determine much of anything out of the guy. He looks very annoyed or depressed about something, but what that is, she doesn’t know. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Hayley says, making a face, and dropping the subject.

Frank notices that Gerard is brooding about something, however, what he could possibly be grumpy about is a mystery, considering how they just won their game, and by a fucking landslide. Of all the people in the world, Gerard should be happiest. He should be jumping up and down, hugging everyone with a pulse, cheering, whooping, celebrating. He shouldn’t be looking like he’s auditioning for a role in an Edgar Allen Poe adaption. 

Frank tries to budge through the now large crowd of hockey players all gathering around in a group in the entrance. 

“Gerard?” Frank asks, looking up at him when he finds himself standing beside him.

“What?” Gerard asks.

“Are you okay?” 

“What?”

“Are you okay, man?” Frank asks, “you look really upset. Like someone just died, or something.”

“I’m fine,” Gerard says, managing a shrug, and doing his best to look fine. He doesn’t feel fine of course, he feels like his entire body is being ripped apart in different directions, and there’s nothing he can do about it. 

Gerard hates it when his own pain is out of his control, it’s absolutely awful. Like, if he breaks a sink or has work that he needs to get done, simple things which are causing him stress or pain, he can do something about it. There is a way to fix those things. But when the thing that hurts is something Gerard doesn’t have the power to change, it’s terrible. The fact that Frank doesn’t like him back is something he cannot change. The fact that Frank might be leaving the school is something he cannot change. The fact that the team, despite two wins, is still going to lose dreadfully by the end of this season is something he cannot change. It hurts. He doesn’t like not being able to change what’s bugging him, it makes everything all the worse. 

Gerard wants so much for things to be different. He wants Frank to like him back, wants for the team to be the best one the world has ever seen. He wants Frank to stay. He wants so many things, none of which are within his grasp and it just hurts. It’s a dull, nagging sort of hurt, which is worse than a sharp pain, because it’s something he can’t alleviate, he just has to bare it. He doesn’t get used to the pain either, so it’s not like it gets easier to handle. So far, it’s just been getting worse. Things have really started to go downhill today more than ever. Before today, Frank was just a guy he couldn’t have. Now, he’s the guy Gerard can’t have who is going to be leaving him. He knows he still has upwards of a year left to spend with Frank, but it’s not enough. He doesn’t want a year, he wants a lifetime.

Gerard actively tries to change the expression on his face so as not to worry Frank. He doesn’t want Frank to feel the grunt of Gerard’s pain, because Frank’s the kind of guy who would blame himself. In a way, it is entirely Frank’s fault that Gerard’s so miserable, but not really. Frank never asked for Gerard to like him, he can’t be held accountable for it. 

“I mean, if something’s wrong, you know you can talk to me about it, right?” Frank asks. “I’ve already laid a lot on your back, I can handle it in return.”

“It’s okay, Frank. It’s nothing I want you to concern yourself with, okay?” Gerard says, mustering up a smile as he looks down at Frank whose big brown eyes are a smack in the face to his grief.

“Okay. Just, please tell me if you need someone to talk to,” Frank says. 

“I will,” Gerard says, with another fake smile. He knows it’s a lie, that the last person in the world he could talk to about his feelings is Frank, but he appreciates the offer more than he could put into words. Frank is so considerate, so kind, so gentle, it’s unbelievable how the whole world hasn’t fallen in love with him by now. 

Frank frowns, wishing he could do more for Gerard, but he walks back over to Hayley so that she doesn’t have to be uncomfortable standing by herself amidst strangers. His concerns are unwarranted however when Frank finds Hayley deep in debate with Pete about hockey teams.

“I’m not saying the Blackhawks aren’t good, all I’m saying is that if they were in a burning building, I probably wouldn’t grab a fire extinguisher.”

“But they’re the greatest team to have ever played hockey!” Pete says, which is not much of a rebuttal.

“They’re the most arrogant.”

“Well, you’d be arrogant too if you were as good a team as they are.”

“Hate to take sides here, Pete, but you’re literally the only guy here who likes the Blackhawks.”

“That’s not true, Patrick likes them!” Pete says, pointing at Patrick, which causes Frank to gasp violently and over dramatically. 

“Patrick,” Frank says, in a scandalized tone.

“Leave me out of this,” Patrick says, putting his hands up as if in surrender. 

“The Blackhawks wipe the floor with the Devils!” Pete says.

“Yeah?” Frank says, and everyone is expecting him to say more, but that’s it. That’s all he has to say on the matter. There’s no ‘buts’ there.

Frank turns to Hayley, who’s smiling, even though Pete’s talking shit, which is a thing he does every now and again. Pete’s not super conceited, but he does rub it in their faces after every single game that the Blackhawks win, it’s quite arduous. Frank would do the same if his team were any fucking good. 

“So how long can you stay until?” Frank asks.

“Well, I don’t have a curfew, because I’m an adult,” Hayley says, making a face as if to tease him. Frank wonders at what point she got to be so mature, because he genuinely has trouble reconciling the girl he knew with who Hayley is now. She’s this strong, gorgeous, opinionated, powerful woman who is badass in every way, and she makes Frank feel small. He’s also proud of how far she’s come, with her skating career and just with her life in general. She looks way more put together than Frank can expect to be at her age. Even if he does make it into the NHL, which is his only life plan at this point, he’s still probably going to be a mess that needs to be put together. 

“So, do you want to come celebrate with us?”

“Only for a little while,” she says, “I mean, I guess I’m your new biggest fan, I’d be an idiot not to meet the team.”

“You’re not going to be our fan once you see us lose every other game in the season,” Travie says, looking disappointed in himself for even saying it.

“Get out of here with that attitude,” Frank replies, shaking his head. “We may suck.” Again, that’s all Frank has to say on the subject.

After the majority of the team pile out of the locker room, they all start to head out as a pack, and a loud one at that. Frank squeezes a place for himself between Hayley and Pete, and talks to them both as they all walk the fifteen-minute distance between the rink and the restaurant. 

Frank is engrossed in talking about the highlights of the game, and gets all excited when they talk about the individual goals, which Patrick and Hayley manage to give them better feedback on, considering that they were watching from the seats at the time. Patrick starts describing Frank’s goal as if he’s already started writing the article about it in his head. He says he really wants to get it done now, but that he can’t just leave them to celebrate without him. After all, Patrick is an honorary member of the team.

Pete and Hayley seem to get a long pretty well, aside from the whole Blackhawks thing, but that doesn’t come as a surprise to Frank. They’re both extremely likeable people. Patrick is too, but he’s a little quieter and reserved, especially since he doesn’t really know Hayley. Patrick only started to warm up to Frank after a week, by which time Frank piled on his enormous secret.

Frank wishes that he could have told his mom while she was here. He thinks he probably will somewhat soon. He doesn’t have any doubt that his mom is going to accept him. She’s the kind of mom that would literally help him hide a body if he asked, so there’s no way she’s going to be disappointed or not accepting of him. Frank just has to find the right time, and a crowded hockey rink surrounded by everyone he knows is not an ideal place for him to lay that out.

They finally make it to the Olive Garden, and Frank doesn’t give a shit that he’s more excited about food than he is about their game. He’s fucking starving, and he wants to eat his weight in pasta and bread. 

The group of them all squeeze into one of those circular booths which are a good idea on the surface, until someone’s gotta pee. They have to pull up a couple of chairs for the people who don’t fit in the booth, but Frank unwittingly is one of the first to climb in, so he has no chance of escape. They’re a larger group than they had been when they’d left the ice rink, because a couple of the guys, most of which are the ones Frank doesn’t know very well, like Kai and Lamar, have brought their girlfriends who are little more than arm candy. Travie is among that number, and Frank makes a point to stay as far away from his girl as he can, because he’s really not very keen on girls. He doesn’t mind Hayley, because she’s basically his sister, but in general, he has trouble relating to or understanding girls. Also, girls generally intimidate him.

There’s very little elbow room on the seat, with fourteen of them in all. Some of the guys, namely Morgan’s posse, decided to celebrate separately, probably because he hates Frank’s guts. Frank is not complaining, as he too hates Morgan’s guts, so it’s a tradeoff. 

Frank doesn’t try to, he would actually say that he actively tries _not_ to, but he finds himself sitting next to Gerard on the booth, and considering how little space there is between them all, it’s not a good idea. He’s so far beyond bumping elbows with him, that he’s practically sitting on Gerard’s lap. It’s a very unfortunate and also fortunate situation. He can’t stop thinking about Gerard’s proximity and how, in an ideal world, he’d be kissing Gerard right now. Just shoving Gerard up against the back of the booth and sticking his tongue down the boy’s throat. 

Frank isn’t able to concentrate on anything that’s not Gerard’s warmth right next to him, it’s very distracting. A few people ask him some questions, none of which he hears or has any response to other than a vague noise, because he can’t fucking think with Gerard so close. Gerard’s hand accidentally brushes against his and Frank let’s out an audible whimper, which thankfully, no one hears. 

Because of Frank’s incapability to make conversation, he just nibbles on breadsticks, hoping that if his mouth is full whenever someone directs a question at him, he’ll be able to get away with not answering. It works fairly well, until Gerard’s the one who tries to talk to him.

Hayley eyes him curiously, she’s crammed on the other side of the table, sitting next to one of the other girls, none of whom Frank actually knows. She’s talking to Pete about something or other, and smiling, and looking just really fucking pretty, which is her expertise.

“So, is Hayley your girlfriend then?” Gerard asks Frank, while he’s eating a breadstick, which causes him to cough, choke on it a little bit and then feel garlic in his nose, which is an unfamiliar and definitely unpleasant feeling. 

“No!” Frank says. “Why does everyone think that? She’s not. We’re just, like, friends. I don’t even have a girlfriend, I’ve told you that.”

“But you want her to be,” Gerard states.

“I don’t. She’s, like, I mean we’re seriously _just_ friends. I haven’t even seen her in like five years, so we’re definitely not dating.”

“Yeah, but look at her, Frank,” Gerard says, melancholy dripping into his tone. “Who wouldn’t want to date her?”

“Me, for starters,” Frank replies, “she’s more like a sister to me. I mean, I’ve known her since I was like four, and I owe her a lot of gratitude and shit, but I definitely don’t like her.”

“She looks like that and you genuinely don’t want to date her?” Gerard asks.

“Well, I mean, yeah. I don’t like her like that, not even a little bit. She’s just a friend, Gerard, honest.”

“Yeah?” Gerard asks, with a surprising lilt in his voice that hadn’t been there before. He seems a little, for lack of a better word, relieved. Maybe even happy. Frank doesn’t understand what that means, though.

Frank has a lot of trouble understanding Gerard. He’d like to say that he reads him like a book, that Gerard makes sense and is easy to understand, but the truth is a lot more complicated than that. Gerard has little oddities, like eccentricities that even Frank can’t dissect. He’s trying, he really is, but there’s something, Frank doesn’t know quite what but definitely _something_ about him. Frank doesn’t know what it is, but it sometimes feels like Gerard is carrying the weight of something very huge, and Frank wants to know what that is. It’s like Gerard is hiding a part of himself from the world, and Frank wants to know what it is. 

Gerard is feeling quite a bit better about himself right now. He doesn’t entirely believe that Frank doesn’t like Hayley, because with a face like that it’s just very difficult to believe anyone could be unattracted to her. Gerard’s kind of into her for fucks sake. But the fact that Frank is eager to say that he isn’t is something hopeful at least. It indicates one of two things. Either Frank is so attracted to her that he can’t admit it to anyone, or that he genuinely isn’t attracted to her at all. 

Gerard is very pleased with that information. He’s choosing to believe Frank, because Frank is either a really good liar or he honestly doesn’t feel anything for Hayley, and it would mean so much to Frank if the latter is the case. Gerard really hopes that Frank is a bad liar, for more reasons than one.

Whatever it is that had been bothering Gerard seems to evaporate not long after he asks Frank about Hayley. Frank is a little surprised, but he doesn’t find it unwelcoming. He actually finds it to the contrary. He always likes Gerard, no matter the context, even when he’s screaming at him during practice, but Frank definitely prefers the warm, kind Gerard to the grumpy, bitter one.

Frank is still having trouble forming cohesive sentences, given that he is still pressed up right against Gerard, but he’s doing his best. Frank’s got this really persistent thought in the back of his head that it would be really nice to just cuddle against Gerard. Nothing overly scandalous or anything, just press himself against Gerard and putting his head in the crook of his neck. Maybe have Gerard’s arms around his waist or feel Gerard resting his cheek against the top of Frank’s head. Frank thinks he would give everything he has ever owned or will ever own to have that just for a moment. He can’t imagine anything in the entire world he would want more, not anything. 

Frank doesn’t want hockey, doesn’t want the NHL as much as he wants to cuddle Gerard. Doesn’t want to kiss him or fuck him as much as he wants that. He can’t think of anything in the entire universe that could ever be better than just that. Just a cuddle. His skin yearns for it, wants to be touched by him, to be held.

Gerard’s having trouble looking at Frank. Whenever he does, he looks at his eyes and it goes downhill. When he looks away from Frank’s eyes, his gaze always falls immediately to Frank’s mouth, and that is an even bigger mistake, somehow. Gerard can’t stop looking at it, and it’s like he’s craving it. He actually feels something like hunger for the taste of Frank’s mouth. 

Frank gets Gerard started up on comic books somehow, and that’s when Frank’s heart completely falls down the drain. He thinks he’s lost every one of his senses, and he also feels like he’s lost a whole lot of happiness, because it’s hard to be happy about winning the game when he doesn’t have what he wants even more than that. He doesn’t have Gerard and when Gerard starts talking about the X-men, there’s nothing that could be better than him. Nothing could be as beautiful and nerdy and excitable and _adorable_ as Gerard. When he starts geeking out about comics, Frank sees stars. He feels a whole new sort of love that he’s never had for anything or anyone.

It hits Frank like a freight train at eighty miles an hour. He’s falling in love with this boy. It’s probably too late. He’s not even dating the guy and yet he might love him as if he is. Frank’s never loved anyone other than his mother, but he can’t imagine that it would feel all that different than this. 

When he looks at Gerard, his heart stops, and it cracks in two. When he’s with Gerard, it mends itself, and when he’s away from him, it slips back into pieces. When Gerard touches him, a surge of warmth and clarity fills his entire body, and when the touch is gone, it’s like a darkness chilling into every crevice, every little corner. It takes all of Frank’s will not to grab and hold Gerard at every second he sees him. He actually feels like he’s fighting off an oncoming army as his stomach stabs him with the pain of not being in Gerard’s arms. 

Frank can’t say he’s ever felt any emotions so intense as the ones he feels for Gerard. Frank really fucking hated his fourth-grade teacher. Like absolutely, unequivocally despised the slimy bitch. Up until now, he’d thought he’d never feel any emotion at all as much as the hatred he had for her, but he feels so much more for Gerard than he ever felt for that witch. Until meeting him, Frank never had a stronger emotion than that, and it took nearly ten years, but that intensity has finally been outmatched. 

“But anyway, I just think that the power of the X-men universe is the strongest in any superhero story out there, because a lot of the story isn’t about fighting these archetypes of bad guys, or about these little episodic adventures that a cheesy superhero and their pals go on, inspiring hope and saving the world. A majority of the beauty of the X-men universe is that they’re not trying to save anybody but themselves, not really. X-men is like the most believable superhero universe because it analyzes the reaction of humanity to a different type of being, and I think that the mutants are a really good metaphor for the prejudices that society holds even to this day.”

“I just think they’ve got cool superpowers, but man, the way you put it makes me want to read the comics for real,” Frank says. 

“Dude,” Gerard says, looking excited and his eyes go wide. “Are you serious? Cause, like, I’ll totally lend you the comics. I’ll lend you a heap of comics. Fuck, you can keep them if it means I can convince you to actually read them.”

Frank grins widely at the expression on Gerard’s face. He looks like Frank just told him the secret to the universe, and the absolute excitement in his face is something Frank would never in his wildest dreams think of taking away from him.

“Absolutely!” Frank replies. “I’ve never really read comics before, actually. If you like them, I’ll accept your recommendation like it’s gospel.”

“I’ll totally let you borrow them, as many as you want, for as long as you want! X-men is probably one of my favorite superhero teams. Well, but then there’s Doom Patrol, oh, and Watchmen, and oh fuck, I can’t recommend just one!”

“Who ever said it had to be just one?” Frank says, and that really sends Gerard on a frenzy.

“Fuck, oh shit, Frank, I should like, holy shit, I could just lend you all of them? I mean, cause then we can talk about them together, and you’ll understand, I mean you’ll _understand_ , cause there’s no turning back once you know how good they are. Man, it’s a rabbit hole, and you’re never gonna leave.”

“Why would I want to?” Frank asks, and this floors Gerard, if possible, even more. He starts naming comic books and superheroes that Frank has honestly never heard of, and the way he talks about them is like a kid in the candy store, or like Frank at a hockey game. 

“Fuck, I’m gonna ruin your entire life, but like, I’m not saying I won’t,” Gerard says. “Can you come by apartment tomorrow? I can hook you up with all the comics you could ever dream of.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Frank says, and that’s the fucking truth. 

Gerard grabs a piece of paper from his pocket, which happens to be a brochure for lawn trimming, then asks the whole table for a pencil. It takes a minute before anyone even finds a writing utensil, but he’s eventually given a pen. Gerard writes down the directions to his apartment on the little empty space he can find between the margins of the brochure. Frank doesn’t know this town very well, but he pretends that he knows what Gerard’s talking about when he tells Frank how to find his place. Frank’s just going to consult Siri, but Gerard’s trying to be helpful so he’s not going to take that away from him.

Frank listens to Gerard nerd out about more comics, even more superheroes he’s never heard of, hears him rant about how much he hates the X-men movies, and Frank honestly couldn’t be more interested. Frank thinks Gerard could give him a lecture about how paper is made and Frank would still be unabashedly fascinated. There’s nothing Gerard could ever say that wouldn’t enthrall Frank. 

Frank feels a little bit devastated when the group decides to dissolve, because the Olive Garden is closing. Frank feels like he’s being torn apart when he has to scoot himself out of the booth, because now he no longer feels Gerard pressed against him. Without Gerard there, it feels like a part of his world is missing. It’s like when you reposition something that had been warm and it suddenly becomes as cold as the arctic. What Frank wouldn’t give just to stay pressed against Gerard for eternity.

Frank does however find the time to talk to Hayley again, which he desperately wants to, considering that she’ll probably be driving back home now that the night is pretty much over. Frank says what is admittedly a rushed goodbye to Gerard before he winds his way over to Hayley, and asks her if he can walk her to her car.

“Of course you’d have manners like that, knowing your mom,” Hayley jokes, with a laugh. Frank just shrugs, because it’s admittedly true. Frank’s a perfect fucking gentleman. He may not be into girls but if he didn’t open doors for Hayley and walk her to her car, his mom would have his head on a stick. 

“We didn’t get to talk as much as I would’ve liked,” Frank says, “we can just walk slowly.”

“Alright,” Hayley says. Frank and the rest of the team all gather up in the lobby of the Olive Garden, saying goodbyes and giving a few final congratulations to the others around them. Mikey is grinning ear to ear, still not down from the high of his goal. They hadn’t gotten to really celebrate the last game, because they’d been on the bus and it was a Wednesday, so this celebration is kind of a dual one. To be fair, though, this game is way more worthy of celebration anyway. 

Frank smiles a little to himself when he and some of the others start to leave the building and he sees Pete and Patrick walking together in stride. He envies them more than he would care to admit, but he is so happy that they’ve got each other. Frank doesn’t have Gerard, or anyone else for that matter, so the fact that two of his friends have someone, each other, it does warm his heart a little bit. Ray gives Frank something of a wink when he sees him walking with Hayley down the sidewalk. Frank wants to yell at him that it’s not like that, but he knows Ray probably won’t believe him, so he just resigns and turns his attention to the pavement in front of him. 

Gerard stares at the two of them, feeling a rush of jealousy again when he sees their figures walking next to each other in the moonlight. They honestly look like they’d make a cute couple. Frank actually looks tall when he’s stood next to Hayley, which is a sight to behold for Gerard, given that he’s the shortest guy on the team, even shorter than Pete. 

Frank’s personality lends itself to a relationship quite cleanly. Even without dating him, it’s obvious to see that he’d be a good boyfriend. Frank is so considerate that it’s alarming sometimes to remember that he’s just one person. Frank could make a career in psychology if the hockey thing doesn’t work out, because his mere presence is a comfort. His entire aura gives off familiarity and ease. 

Gerard whines to himself as he walks all alone back to his own apartment, wishing for nothing more to be walking there with Frank’s hand in his. 

“What are you doing now?” Frank asks, “still skating?”

“Just as a hobby now,” Hayley says. “I don’t think I ever expected it to be much of anything more than that.”

“You could’ve gone places,” Frank says, “you could’ve tried out for the Olympics, or like, tried to go competitive.”

“I could’ve,” she shrugged, “I don’t think I really wanted to, though.”

“Really? Why not?”

“Well, skating is fun, a lot of fun. But for me, that’s all it is. It’s not like, my life, not anymore at least. I never want to completely stop, and I might go back to competing locally soon, once I reestablish myself a little bit in the community, but until then, I’m happy for it to just be a hobby.”

“I don’t think I could ever do hockey as a hobby. It’s too much a part of me. It’s everything, really. It’s all that I know and love and need. Hockey is everything I want from life.”

“I see that,” Hayley says, “I always kind of knew it too. You like hockey in a way I never liked figure skating. For you, it’s clear, it’s more than just a game, and that’s okay. I think it’s okay to know what you want from life, it’s actually remarkable. It’s something you should be proud of. No one knows what they want to do, but you do, and that’s astounding.”

“I still don’t have any of my shit together,” Frank jokes.

“No one does.”

“I know. It seems like it, everyone else always look like they know what they’re doing, way more so than yourself. But I do know that what I want is to just do hockey. To live hockey. I don’t have any plans beside that, because it’s really the only thing that I know for sure is true about myself.”

“Frank, if you play like you did out there all the time, there’s nothing you can’t do.”

“Gerard said the same thing,” Frank says, smiling.

“Well, he’s right,” Hayley says. “You look like you have it all together when you’re out there. You make it look easy. You make hockey a sort of dance, do you know that?”

“I’m always being told I skate like a girl. It’s probably because you taught me. I think, if anything, it gives me a competitive edge.”

“I’m glad that I could be of some help,” Hayley laughs, and then looks up at the sky. Frank looks up too, smiling, and then thinking about all the stars in the sky. None of them compare to Gerard; together, they still don’t come close. 

“Hayley, can I tell you something?” Frank asks, getting a sudden but very strong urge that he couldn’t have even known himself he was going to feel.”

“Anything,” she responds.

“It’s, well, it’s kind of a big thing.”

“How big?” she asks.

“Like monumental, but not really. I mean, for other people I guess it is, but for me, it’s nothing that huge. For you, though, it might be big.”

“I’m all ears,” Hayley says, turning her attention away from the night sky to look at Frank. Frank suddenly feels the cold air around him, because it hits the heat of his face which helps him level his breathing. He’s nervous to let the words out, because he’s only ever done this once before, and it’s a very difficult thing to actually do. 

“I’m, well I don’t want this to change anything between us,” Frank says. “It doesn’t have to, I mean, it _shouldn’t_.”

Hayley narrows her eyes, looking more and more curious as to what it is that Frank has to say, because he isn’t normally such a serious person. Right now, it’s as though he’s carrying something bigger than him. 

Frank doesn’t think too much about it this time. He doesn’t give himself the opportunity to get nervous, because he lets the words slip out quickly, not without hesitation, but he lets them go which is an accomplishment in and of itself. “I’m, well, I’m g-gay.”

Hayley is a little bit taken aback at Frank’s words. Of all the things she might have expected Frank to have said, that was not one of them. 

It’s not like she hadn’t considered it though. It doesn’t come as an enormous surprise. Hayley has known Frank since he was about four, before he had even started school. For nearly fifteen years of his life, Frank has never expressed interest in anyone at all romantically. Not girls, and not boys either. It’s never been anything that was all that pressing, so she’s never pushed him about it. She just assumed Frank was a private person when it comes to relationships, or possibly that he just didn’t want one. 

Hearing him say the words though, puts a little bit of perspective on what she knows of him. Frank’s never been a stereotype of anything. Frank doesn’t fit any molds that have ever been created for anyone. Frank’s not a stereotypical skater, hockey player, or boy. He’s just Frank. He kind of inhabits his own facet of humanity which no other person has ever considered. This is just another thing to add to the list of things that separate Frank from everyone around him.

“Oh,” Hayley says, and nods. “I see.”

“Is that, is it okay with you?”

“What?” She asks, and then seems surprised by the question. “Oh, of course. Why not? Frank, you’re one of my oldest friends, I’d accept you for anything short of mass murder! Not like being gay compares to that even a little bit. I just mean that I don’t care what you are or anything like that. I care about you through whatever. It’s not something that you need to be worried about, Frank. You’re still you, I don’t see you any differently because of this.”

“Really?” Frank asks, smiling. He doesn’t have a hard time believing Hayley. She’s somehow even more trustworthy than Patrick. Frank didn’t know what Hayley’s views on the matter were, in all honesty. She could’ve been very prejudice and Frank would be none the wiser. But Hayley’s just not that type of person. She’s very warm, very gentle, very caring. There’s something almost maternal about Hayley, not like Frank sees her in that way, she’s just the kind of person who you can trust. She’s the kind of person who would buy you soup if you’ve got a cold, or give you a ride if your car breaks down a hundred miles away. 

Hayley is someone who Frank feels like he could trust with all of his deepest secrets. She really is like a sister to him, and he’s always felt that way. He could never look at her in anyway other than that. He hopes Gerard believes that. Not that Frank stands a chance, but he doesn’t want Gerard to think he’s into her when he’s actually into Gerard himself. 

“Frank, you’re like the only guy in my life who I actually trust,” Hayley says. “You’re like, I don’t know, you’re like my little brother. I love you unconditionally.”

Frank grins back at her, and he feels like the wind on his face reflects the feelings he has inside. The wind doesn’t actually feel that cold right now, it’s one of those lulls where the weather doesn’t seem nearly as cold as it actually is. The wind feels like a summer breeze. The sky feels like a peaceful blanket, or like a promise. A promise of what he’s unsure, but it’s got the same feeling behind it. 

Frank gets somewhat of a jump in his step, feels like something has finally clicked, something that hadn’t quite clicked when he’d told Patrick. Patrick is his friend, one of his closest friends at that, but Hayley is something more. Even if he hasn’t seen her in a while, their relationship is a totally different dynamic than the one he has with Patrick. Hayley is something entirely different, and her opinion, her acceptance, it means more. Frank feels substantially more because Hayley knows. He feels a lot calmer. Frank almost feels at peace. 

“So, do you like one of those boys then?” Hayley asks, getting this wild look in her eyes, like she’s ready for all the gossip. She would love nothing more than to do boy talk with Frank though, because clearly there’s someone, she can see it in his face, she just wants to figure out who it is that he likes. She’s suspected it all day, though she didn’t know quite what it was that she was actually suspecting until now. Looking back, she can see that there was tension, something that probably only she would notice, given how well she knows Frank. He definitely likes someone, that’s clear to see now.

“Uh, well, maybe,” Frank says, blushing.

“Oh my gosh, I knew it! Which one? Wait, no, don’t tell me, I want to guess.”

Frank laughs, but shrugs and thinks to himself, “why not?” Hayley’s a silly person in general, which he really admires about her. 

“Okay, is it that really pretty one?” Hayley asks.

“I mean, they’re all pretty, you’re going to have to be more specific.”

“The one who’s prettier than all the other ones! What was his name… Travie?”

“Oh, right, yeah, Travie. I mean, yeah I guess he is a little bit better looking than some of the other guys, but no, it’s not him.”

“Really?” she asks, looking surprised. “Huh, well, I mean, less competition for me then, I guess, right?”

Frank snorts, and Hayley joins along with him. It’s simple, a simple sort of feeling, but a very nice one. 

Frank quite enjoys the ease at which he’s able to talk to her about this. The fact that she’s so open, and nonjudgmental. Probably Frank’s favorite thing is how, in one word, uninterested about his sexuality she is. That’s not to say she’s being rude or brushing him off, it’s just, it doesn’t feel like Hayley cares one way or another what gender Frank likes, which is what Frank wants most in the world. He doesn’t want people to make a big deal out of it, because it’s not a big deal. It’s the simplest thing in the world, it’s just who he likes. Hayley just wants to gossip and talk about boys with him, the sort of tame friendly banter that you’re supposed to have with friends. It doesn’t need to be about Frank being gay, it’s just about Frank liking a person. Frank likes a boy, and she doesn’t care, she just wants the dirty details. It feels normal. Normal is all Frank wants. 

“Alright, is it the twiggy one?”

“Definitely not,” Frank says, shaking his head, knowing immediately who she’s referring to. Mikey’s great and all, but he’s really not Frank’s type. 

“Didn’t think so,” Hayley says, shaking her head, “You’d have to be careful with that one. You might cut yourself on his jawline.”

“Probably,” Frank nods.

“Okay, is it, it’s not Pete, is it?” she asks. Frank is not surprised that she remembers Pete’s name. Pete is a very hard person to forget.

“God no,” Frank says, “He’s, well… he’s Pete. No. Besides, he’s in a relationship.”

“Alright, I thought that might be a bad idea, he’s the captain, that just doesn’t seem like a good dynamic.”

“Yeah, I suppose,” Frank shrugs. He wonders what she’ll think if she figures out that it’s Gerard. Gerard’s even further above Pete as far as seniority goes, being the assistant coach. Gerard’s about four years older than him, as well, which he supposes she might frown upon. It’s not like he likes Gerard _because_ he’s the assistant coach, or because of his age for that matter, he just likes Gerard. Everything about him is what he likes, and it’s not up to him to decide how old Gerard is. Besides, Frank’s birthday is only a few days away, so that’ll make it a little less weird.

Frank is aware that it is still weird. 

“Alright, I don’t know then,” she says, “just tell me.”

“Uh, well, okay, you’ve got to promise not to judge me.”

“I will try my best,” Hayley says. 

“It’s Gerard,” Frank says, biting his lip. Getting that off his chest seems like quite a huge thing that he hadn’t even known was so heavy. He would love, absolutely adore having someone to talk to about Gerard. Even if she doesn’t know him very well, even the possibility of getting to talk and to vent to Hayley about how much he fucking loves that son of a bitch, it’s the most amazing prospect. Obviously, he’d like to have Gerard more, but having to bottle it all up inside himself, without letting it out, it constantly feels like he’s going to explode. 

“Gerard…” she says, thinking and trying to place which one he is. “Oh, the grumpy one?”

Frank snorts, “yeah, the grumpy one.”

“He’s kinda cute,” she says.

“Kinda?” Frank asks, incredulous. Frank is under the impression that Gerard is the most perfect human on the face of the planet, so the fact that she thinks he’s only kinda cute is astounding to him.

“Well, he was kind of grouchy, wasn’t he? And you just won the game, doesn’t make sense to me why he’d be like that.”

“I mean… I don’t know, I genuinely couldn’t explain why he was behaving like that either, but, I just, I can’t help it. I like him a lot. Like a lot a lot. Like, whenever I see him it feels like I’m both dying and finally living at the same time. He’s so fantastic, and gorgeous, and funny, and such a huge fucking dork, and I love everything about him.”

“That’s what that awkward thing was,” Hayley says, “I thought you didn’t like him at first. Apparently, you act like that because you _really_ like him.”

“Shut up,” Frank says, playfully pushing her, which makes her laugh with a brilliant sound in her voice that Frank suddenly realizes he’s been missing all these years. “You don’t think it’s weird, though, do you? I mean, I know he’s like, he’s not a teacher or anything, and it’s not like there are any rules against it. He’s barely even an employee at the school?”

“It could be worse,” Hayley says, shrugging. “I mean, you’re going to want to be careful, obviously.”

“He’s not gay, though!” Frank says, “I don’t even stand a chance.”

“He’s not?” Hayley asks, honestly a little surprised, because that is definitely not the vibe she was getting off of him earlier. She doesn’t know him though, Frank knows him much better, so she trusts him.

“He’s not. I wish he was. Fuck, if he was, my life would be complete. I would never be sad again if I had him. He’s like, Gerard is like the only thing in the world I want more than a career in the NHL. Well, not more maybe, but about as much.”

“He must be special if he’s got you all twisted up,” Hayley laughs, the same laugh that Frank likes so much. He can’t explain it, but her laugh fills him up with something like joy.

“Aw fuck, I can’t believe we went so long away from each other,” Frank says, as they come upon the parking lot outside the ice rink, meaning they’re going to have to say goodbye soon.

“Let’s just make a promise not to go so long again without talking this time, okay?” Hayley asks.

Frank smiles and nods, “it’s a deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment, and also I love you!


	18. Pillars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerard is going to be his ultimate defeat, but he’s also his secret weapon.

Frank wakes up early Saturday morning. Far too early for a weekend, but just plain old early in general. It’s because Frank’s got a plan for today. 

His plan involves a whole lot of Gerard. Frank didn’t catch what time Gerard said he’d actually like for Frank to come over, so Frank spends something like four hours pacing around the dorm trying to convince himself that he can go over to Gerard’s apartment now. The timing is all wrong every time he checks his watch. Also, time moves so slowly that Frank genuinely has to check three clocks to confirm that he’s reading it correctly. The minutes are going by at about an hour each, and he genuinely feels his own heart beating faster every single time that he does see the minute hand go past twelve, because it means he’s all the closer to seeing Gerard.

Frank has never actually spent any one-on-one time with Gerard, not really. He’s been alone with him in Gerard and Coach’s office, but that doesn’t really count because they were still technically in public, given that the office isn’t solely Gerard’s. They’ve been alone in the ice rink which also doesn’t count because there’s floor to ceiling windows in most of the lobby. He went out to breakfast with Gerard the first week he was here, but there were dozens of couples all eating in close proximity to him. Except they were all real couples instead of the couple that Frank wishes he and Gerard were.

Frank has thus far never been alone with Gerard, really alone, for much more than about ten minutes. It’s not like Frank is expecting anything to happen. He’s not expecting to walk straight into a porno, or to even get very close to Gerard, but it will still be the closest the two of them have ever been to each other, and that is good enough for Frank. Frank really wishes he were going over to Gerard’s place to have way more coupley fun, mostly just kissing and watching Netflix, with or without the chill part, he’s flexible. 

It’s about ten when Frank decides that he has done enough waiting, and he makes his way out of the building. Frank makes it all of about ten feet before he realizes that he doesn’t know where he’s going and that he left his phone in his room. 

Frank walks all the way back, sees Ray who is sitting upside down trying to read a textbook, but it’s not working very well for him. If his head gets about an inch closer to the ground, he could probably use his hair to sweep the floor below him. Frank crooks his head to the side a little bit, as much as he can so that his head is at the same angle as Ray’s without falling over.

“How’s it going?” Frank asks, as he searches his bedsheets for where he left his phone. He doesn’t actually remember having it on him at all today, which is a first for Frank. Frank is very used to having his entire life dictated by his phone, and it feels weird realizing that he hasn’t had it now for almost four hours of the day. He doesn’t know how on earth he was capable of functioning without it, Frank was sure that he would die if he ever didn’t have his phone on him, but he supposes that the power of merely imagining Gerard’s presence is enough to flip Frank’s whole world upside down, much like Ray is right now. That and the fact that someone had Property Brothers playing on the TV which kept Frank occupied for more time than he would care to own up to. Property Brothers and Gerard would be a deadly combination.

“Oh you know, just hanging out,” Ray replies, and Frank nods, which really messes with Ray’s center of gravity, and he, very gracefully, falls from his spot onto the floor. Luckily though, his hair breaks most of the fall. It does nothing for his ego though.

“I’d give it a 9, the landing could have been much more majestic,” Frank says, shaking his head as he finally gets his hand around his phone, which somehow wound its way under his pillow.

“Oh man, don’t know if I can study anymore,” Ray says, rubbing at his head as he turns himself around to sit upright on the floor. 

“Yeah, you probably got a concussion, it was a long fall down,” Frank says, playing along, because Ray is clearly just trying to find an excuse to stop studying.

“Yeah, I’ll probably need surgery and six months’ rest.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Frank says, nodding.

“Well, now that I can’t study anymore, do you want to hang? Except maybe not upside down,” Ray asks.

“Can’t, I’m going over to Gerard’s place and he’s going to lend me like three million comics, give or take.”

“Oh,” Ray says, “I’ll just go hang out with Mikey then.”

“The lesser Way,” Frank says, joking.

“Well, you win some you lose some,” Ray jokes with a shrug. Frank rolls his eyes and then heads back out the door again. He reaches into his jacket pocket for where he put the lawn trimming brochure that Gerard wrote his address on, then consults Siri. Frank huffs, because the walk to his apartment is about fifteen minutes away and the weather outside is officially cold. Yesterday it had been cold in sheep’s clothing, but today, it’s just plain old cold. Frank stuffs his free hand into his pocket, and makes his way down the sidewalk, passing several students on his way. 

Frank makes a grumpy face when he passes a couple, a straight couple of course, holding hands. Frank would love to be a couple who holds hands down the sidewalk at ten in the morning, but he doesn’t get that luxury. It’s not just because he doesn’t have a boyfriend, it’s because even if he did, he’d get stoned to death by his teammates for having a boyfriend in the first place. Well, maybe not stoned to death, but probably have his clothes stolen from his locker, his equipment sabotaged, pushed to the ground enough times that he’d start to bruise, and a whole assortment of other things that would eventually force him to quit, if they don’t demand that of him outright.

On that positive note, Frank sticks his headphones in and passes the rest of the walk to the apartment listening to Adele, because Adele is nice Saturday morning kind of music, whereas death metal is a bit on the heavy side for someone who’s only been awake a few hours. You have to have at least eaten lunch before you can crack out the death metal. 

Frank makes his way to Gerard’s apartment, and when he finds it, he stares at the rather unintimidating height for several seconds before he actually walks up to the building. He looks at the windows, trying to determine how tall the building is, and concluding that it’s somewhere around five stories, which isn’t very tall, but it’s a small town, so it’s probably sufficient. 

Frank takes a couple of deep breaths, he’s far too nervous for a guy who’s hanging out with a guy to talk about comic books. Frank can’t help it if he has a wild imagination. Yes, he knows he’s going up there to talk about comics and have an unrequited swooning session, but in his dreams, Frank is stepping right into an adult film. 

Frank looks at the brochure again to find the apartment number and then presses the correct button for Gerard’s apartment, feeling really weird about needing to be buzzed in to visit him, because Frank’s always lived in a house. He purses his lips when it takes Gerard a moment to respond. Frank feels uncomfortable, standing on the sidewalk, in relative silence as cars pass behind him. There’s only a few people out and about here, because Frank’s a few minutes off campus, but most of the apartments seem to be occupied by students anyway, if the giant Green Knights logo in one of the windows says anything. It’s obviously not for the hockey team, it’s just that all the sports teams have the same name. 

After a minute or two, Gerard’s voice fills the air, rather boxy and distorted, but it’s Gerard’s voice nonetheless, so Frank smiles at the sound of it. Gerard buzzes him without small talk, saving that for when he actually sees Frank. Frank makes quick work of the stairs, rushing up them two at a time, really frightening an old lady on his way. By the time, he steps onto the correct landing, he realizes it didn’t take as long as it should have to get here. Frank doesn’t want to give Gerard the impression that he’s super eager, so he paces the hallway outside of Gerard’s door for a minute or two, trying to make it seem like he didn’t run up the stairs as quick as he could at the mere prospect of seeing Gerard. 

Eventually, though, Frank settles with the fact that he’s going to have to knock on the door. He doesn’t know why, but now that he’s here, he’s not sure if he wants to be. He’s excited to see Gerard, unbelievably excited, more than he could say, but at the same time, he’s a wreck of nerves. He’s terrified of doing or saying something wrong around Gerard. He’s also wary of being so close to Gerard when he can’t have him. Frank is a little worried about his own instincts when he’s around the guy, it takes all of his heart to prevent him from kissing Gerard every time he sees him. It takes a huge part of him to even look away from Gerard when their eyes meet. Gerard really tears him apart, breaks him into tiny little pieces. It’s a very painful feeling, but it’s one Frank is addicted to. He kind of likes it. 

Frank knocks on the door, feeling his pulse in every part of his body, from his ears to his feet somehow. It’s quicker than normal, but steadier than it had been previously today, and he doesn’t know why. Mostly, Frank thinks it’s because he’s not _waiting_ to see Gerard anymore, he’s going to actually see him any second now. 

Gerard comes to the door a mere second or two after Frank knocked, which makes Frank have an instant feeling of regret when he notices that Gerard has a peep hole. What if Gerard had been stood staring through the peephole ever since he buzzed Frank in? It’s entirely possible that Gerard just watched Frank pace outside of his door for three minutes. 

Frank’s worry isn’t unfounded. Gerard had been waiting on the other side of the door, staring through the peephole, waiting to see Frank for the first time. He hadn’t intended to be creepy, he just wanted to get the initial aching of his heart out of the way so he wouldn’t accidentally whimper when he opened the door for Frank. Gerard can’t rationalize why on earth Frank had been pacing about outside his door, but when he opens it for him, he pretends that he saw nothing at all.

“Hey Frank,” Gerard says, with a smile that’s a bit too big on his face, not like Frank even notices. Frank is too busy turning a red color at the idea of Gerard having seen him, but he doesn’t say anything, he just nods politely at Gerard. 

“Hey,” Frank says, biting his lip.

“Come in,” Gerard says to him, stepping back and holding the door open for Frank to enter. Frank smiles at him and doesn’t say anything more before he steps through the doorway and then immediately darts his head all around like he’s trying to drink every inch of the new environment in.

Frank’s very first impression is that the apartment is entirely and completely overwhelmed by the personality of Gerard. There’s Gerard _everywhere_. The most obvious example is the smell of Gerard which is like a punch in the face. It’s a sharp tangy smell which is very feminine, but with a hint of something a little less so. There’s an intrinsically sweet smell to it that Frank has never been able to put his finger on, but it just screams Gerard. His entire surroundings are a nest of the smell of him, one that honestly knocks him off his feet. He wants to smell it for every second of the rest of his life. He wants to cocoon himself in the smell, and just nest there, for as long as he can. 

Besides the smell of him, the living room which he’s stepped into, is the most Gerard thing in the world. It’s kind of a mess, the kind of mess that you know someone spent a long time trying to clean up for appearances, but their version of cleaning up just means piling trash and hiding stuff behind furniture. As Frank had previously suspected, there’s a couple pizza boxes stacked up by the front door, obviously for the purpose of being taken to the garbage, but they never actually managed to wind up there. 

The couch is a clear hand-me-down, probably from a grandparent, because it’s got a gaudy flower design on it, and the stuffing seems to be dwindling on the back support. The couch is facing a TV which has a logo bouncing across the screen. There’s also a little armchair which appears to have been purchased at a flea market for five bucks and a bag of funyuns. 

What really sticks out is the wall décor. Gerard’s at that age where it’s socially unacceptable for a man to hang posters on his walls, so instead, Gerard has found a loophole, which is that he framed a bunch of posters and _then_ he put them on the wall. There’s some posters with little pieces missing in the corners which lead Frank to believe they were once taped to a wall. Amid the posters are B horror movies that anyone other than Frank would never have heard of, as well as some band posters that look to be older than most middle schoolers. 

There are shelves pressed up against the parts of the wall without posters, a rare occurrence, and those are filled with what appear to be just hundreds and hundreds of comics. Like, Frank had thought that Gerard was joking, that he was overexaggerating, but there’s actually got to be upwards of a few thousand comic books crammed onto three bookcases. Some of the shelves are littered with toys as well, Frank spots a couple action figures, and quite a few bobbleheads which Frank can’t say entirely surprise him but they also amuses him at the same time. 

Every single inch of the apartment is Gerard. Frank absolutely loves it. 

“Sorry it’s kind of a mess,” Gerard says, closing the door behind him and then kicking the pizza boxes an inch or two to the left, as if moving them will make them disappear from Frank’s view. 

Frank smiles, and then turns around to say, “I don’t mind. It looks like you.”

That’s when Gerard feels something deep in his bones like a wild animal or a waterfall bursting through him with such ferocity. Gerard suddenly feels every single fiber of his entire body feel what can only be described as the _need_ to push Frank up against the wall and kiss him for so long that he can’t breathe. It’s a painful, digging, monstrous feeling which Gerard is only barely strong enough to hold at bay, and even then, it makes him feel like he’s just battled a great white shark. He can actually feel his heart completely explode with tremendous force. He’s not even willing to bet that it’s a metaphorical explosion, there’s a possibility that his heart actually just exploded.

Gerard stops and sort of stutters for a moment before regaining something similar to composure, as he invites Frank to sit down on his grandmother’s old sofa.

Frank grins back at him, completely unaware of what he’s doing to Gerard, not like he feels much different to him.

Through a hideously ugly cutout in the wall is the kitchen, and Gerard disappears through a door beside it. Frank can only see the top of his head because of the ugly cutout, which indicates that this apartment was clearly built sometime around the 80s. Frank bites his lip again, feels like a foreigner in Gerard’s apartment. It’s so very much _him_ , like Frank has walked directly into his brain. It feels like he’s intruding on something personal. Frank loves it though, he loves seeing it, loves smelling Gerard all around him. 

Frank never realized how much he loved the way Gerard smelled until now. He loves it so much. He could bury his face into Gerard’s neck and just take him in, breathe his scent for the rest of his life. It smells like happiness and like home. Gerard also sometimes smells like he needs to take a shower, but the one around Frank now is the smell that usually chases that one. This is the smell that Frank remembers about him. 

Gerard returns to him, a moment later, offering him a glass of water which Frank is too shy to say no to. 

Gerard, as per usual, launches into comic talk the second that he sits down beside Frank. He leaves at least a foot between himself and Frank on the couch, probably as much as he possibly can while still being _on_ the couch. It’s not like Gerard doesn’t _want_ to sit next to Frank, it’s just that he doesn’t want to torture himself with something that he can’t have. Being that close to Frank, being close enough to touch him, or actually touching him, that is just too much. It would kill him. He’d probably just keel over. 

“-And like you can’t forget about Daredevil, right, because he’s the coolest fucking superhero there is! Like I’m not going to lie to you I’m a sucker for Wolverine, or any of the X-men really, but man I do fucking love Daredevil. I was raised catholic you know, and Matt Murdock is catholic, and I really identified with that growing up, course back then I didn’t realize that, I just thought it was cool how he beat people up who he couldn’t see, but I mean he’s so fucking cool. I always had daydreams about just like accidentally walking into radioactive goo or whatever and then waking up one day with superpowers. I’d always come up with like the same variation of the same story, and with different superpowers too, in fact I bored all of my English teachers with self-insert stories with the same plotline, basically just ripped off Spiderman’s origin story over and over again, but you know it’s the thought that counts-”

Gerard continues like that for about another ten minutes, and Frank just smiles back at him, and kind of wonders if Gerard is aware of how long he’s been talking or what, because it seems like it’s been a century or two, but Frank could easily listen for another couple millennia. 

“-But see, new superheroes in general kind of suck, and every once in a while there’s like a diamond in the rough, and fuck, let me just tell you about Deadpool, because I don’t know why, you kind of remind me of Deadpool a little bit, not like in the face, because Mikey kind of reminds me of Deadpool in the face, ha, oh I really wish you got that joke because I’m really proud of myself, but anyway he’s just really cool and a lot of his power comes from the two warring halves of his persona, like this is a deeply depressing story which is brought to life by pure hilarity and eccentricity, and…. fuck,” Gerard starts, and then it’s like he suddenly realizes where he is. He looks around for a couple of seconds, as if he’s just been woken up from a thousand-year sleep and doesn’t know who he is or what’s happening to him. “How long was I talking?” 

“Oh, like fifteen minutes,” Frank says with a shrug. Gerard’s eyes go bug eyed when Frank says that, a look of utter disbelief, much to the amusement of Frank.

“Why didn’t you _stop_ me?” Gerard asks, incredulous.

“I was enjoying it,” Frank replies, “You make it really interesting.”

“Oh fuck, I’m sorry,” Gerard says, “I didn’t mean to… I just I really like comics, you know? They’re one of my pillars.”

“Pillars?” Frank asks.

“Yeah, pillars. You know like the pillars that made you who you are? For me it’s comics, and hockey, and punk music.”

“Oh okay,” Frank nods, then tries to determine what pillars he has that aren’t hockey. All he can come up with is hockey and punk music. Then he remembers figure skating. Those would definitely be the three biggest things in his life, hockey and figure skating a little bit more so. He can’t tell Gerard that though, so he instead says, “I guess mine are just hockey and music.”

“Oh man, a week with me and we can add comics to that roster,” Gerard says grinning like a maniac, and then he leans over to grab a stack of comic books on the living room table in front of him. There’s about twenty or so, which is fewer than Frank had been expecting. “So I grabbed you like, the first editions of some of my favorites. There are some people who would give you like, the highlights of them, but I’m a purist, and I believe the only way to consume any materiel is from the beginning, so if they start out a little bit slow, just know that they do get better, but they’re all amazing so you won’t find any of them slow, but just in case you do, that’s why. So, I’ve got you some X-men, Daredevil, kind of wanted to just give you my copy of Watchmen, but I thought we’d start out slow, you know? Like don’t want to throw you into the deep end without giving you the chance to stick your toe in the water first. But anyway, I’ve got like, I mean I’ve got almost all of them because comics are my life. I’ve got a few like essentials collections which just compile all of the better stories into big volumes, but you should read the first ones first, right?”

“Gerard, I’ll just read whatever you tell me to,” Frank says, smiling as Gerard gives him the giant stack which is a lot heavier than Frank had anticipated. Frank has never actually read a comic, like never read a paper comic before. Frank never had the money or the time to waste on comic books, so he never got the chance. Also, it helps if you have a parent who gets you into comics, but Frank didn’t have that either, so he’s lived a comic-less life up until now. However, if Gerard loves something this much, Frank’s sure he won’t be able to stop himself from loving them. 

Frank would love anything if Gerard likes it, he can’t help himself. Frank will change opinions he’s already made if Gerard is cute enough about it. Frank is not a huge fan of swiss cheese, but if Gerard declares himself to be a big fan of swiss cheese then Frank will decide swiss cheese is the best goddamn food on the face of the planet. 

“So which one do I start with?” Frank asks, because there’s still twenty comics here.

“Um, I guess it depends on what you want, like are you into teams or solo heroes?”

“I don’t know,” Frank shrugs.

“Well what superhero movie was your favorite?” Gerard asks. 

“Uh, well probably the Avengers,” Frank says, because he’s only ever actually seen five, but he doesn’t want to admit to that, because he thinks it might make Gerard cry. One of them was the Fantastic Four so Frank’s opinion of superhero movies is not incredibly high. 

“Okay, well I gave you Avengers, so start with that one,” Gerard says, “and be careful with that one, it’s one of my older ones, it’s not exactly mint or anything, but I protect my comics like they’re my children.”

Frank grins at him, a big toothy smile, which makes Gerard feel like a popsicle in a hundred degrees getting blow dried. Gerard melts so damn fast that there’s a good chance he was never even solid to begin with. 

“What’s your favorite?” Frank asks. “Like your favorites series?”

“Um, I mean, the X-men,” Gerard says, “probably. Oh shit, but I’ve got so many favorites. Doom Patrol, Watchmen, fucking Daredevil. Dude, it’s a toughie. I’m very spread out. I’ve got many loves.”

“You know how you said if you ever quit hockey you want to do comics? I think that you’d be pretty at amazing at that. If the way you talk about them is anything to go by, I think you’d be the best comic book writer in the world.”

At that, Gerard turns the same color as The Flash. He goes so fucking crimson that Frank actually gets a little worried about him for a second. 

Gerard has trouble taking compliments. It’s not that he can’t accept them or that he doesn’t believe them, he just has trouble responding to people when they compliment him. He wants to say thank you, but he doesn’t get flattered all that often so he wants to say more than just thank you because compliments really do get to him in a very real and enormous way. So, when someone compliments him he never has the words to say all of what he wishes he could.

It doesn’t help that Frank’s the one who complimented him, Frank is the love of his fucking life and here is handing out probably the best compliment Gerard could ever receive so readily. Frank has actually said a similar thing to him before, it’s just that, he said that before Gerard ranted on and on about comics for fifteen minutes. Frank thinks he’d be good at it, and Gerard believes that Frank isn’t just saying that to be nice. Frank’s the kind of guy who compliments people very genuinely. Frank actually thinks Gerard would be good at writing comic books. Gerard loves him. 

Gerard splutters for a good thirty or forty seconds, no words coming out, or at least no decipherable ones. At some point, Gerard just gives up and goes silent. He stares at the carpet as an excuse to not have to look at Frank, and it works until he realizes that he should say words now.

“So, um, lunch, do you want to get some lunch? I’m hungry,” Gerard says and his voice is kind of high, but he’s managed to get words out and that’s what counts.

Frank smiles, but Gerard doesn’t look at the smile, because he doesn’t think his heart could bare it. “Yeah, I could eat,” Frank says, “What’s good around here? You’ve lived here for like five years, I’ve been here for like three weeks, so whatever you want, I’m game.”

“Um, well, there’s a great pizza place just a block away,” Gerard says. 

“Yeah?” Frank asks, as if he can’t tell that Gerard likes their pizza, given that he has a stack a mile high of their boxes only like three feet away from where Frank currently sits. “I like pizza.”

“We can get pizza then!” Gerard says, jumping up quickly. Gerard is struck with an idea as he’s walking around the couch, and he turns back to look at Frank, who turns his attention to him. Gerard’s apartment is fairly dark, because he keeps the shades closed every day, not necessarily to make his neighbors think he’s a vampire, but that is an added bonus. 

“Oh, do you want to get it delivered? Cause there are a bunch of superhero shows on Netflix?”

Frank grins that big toothy grin of his again, and Gerard whimpers inaudibly to himself. He can practically feel his heart beating out of his chest every time Frank flashes that smile at him, it gives Gerard heart palpitations. He feels like a car that won’t start, trying to get the engine to turn over, but as many times as he tries, it just doesn’t happen. Gerard feels like his entire body is the engine. He becomes a fucking shell of a human when Frank is around him. 

Frank refrains from making a Netflix and chill joke, because he can’t tell why, but he’s pretty sure Gerard is internally combusting right now, and he doesn’t want to push the limits. There’s a good chance Gerard literally would just break apart if Frank were to say the wrong thing. He doesn’t know exactly why Gerard is like that, but it’s not the kind of thing he thinks he needs to worry about. Gerard’s probably just nervous that Frank’s not going to like the comics he’s picked out for him, that’s all. 

“I mean, I’m up for it if you are,” Frank says. He’s started to actually feel comfortable in Gerard’s apartment. It probably happened sometime during the fifteen-minute spiel about superheroes. He actually took in every single word Gerard said like he’s a sponge. Frank can’t find it in himself to be bored by anything Gerard has to say. 

Gerard makes a weird nose that’s something like a groan and a whine, and then he goes into the room adjacent to the living room, which Frank assumes is his bedroom. The sound is actually a product of Gerard being angry at himself for how much he likes Frank, which is so much that his anger at himself got a little bit caught up in his heart, which is what caused the whining sound. When Gerard disappears into his room, he sits his head against the wall for a couple of seconds, makes something like a crying sound and then stands up straight again and walks back out. 

Gerard comes back with his phone in one hand, and then he sits back on the couch. Frank gives him his pizza order which is simply, “whatever their pizza with a shit ton of veggies is minus the olives,” because that’s Frank’s order at every pizza place. Gerard calls the pizza place, has a friendly chat with the guy who picks up the phone, a guy who he presumably speaks to a lot if the number of pizza boxes is anything to go by. 

Gerard then stares at Frank, too excited about forcing him to watch superhero shows to remember how much it hurts to look at Frank.

“Okay, so what kind of superhero show do you want to watch? Dark and gritty, or like whimsical but not as suspenseful?”

“Well what’s your favorite show?” Frank asks.

“Oh, Daredevil by a long shot. Most accurate superhero show probably ever. Fucking amazing. The Flash is like good for casual viewing, but like, it’s not really my cup of tea. To me superheroes should be suspenseful and dark first and then comedy added in later, not the other way around.”

“Then we watch Daredevil,” Frank says. 

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Gerard says with a voice that sounds more like he’s talking about sex then a TV show, but Frank’s into it. Frank’s just along for the ride at this point, he doesn’t understand what the hell is happening around him, he just knows that Gerard is so pretty that it makes his bones hurt. Even his teeth. Gerard’s so gorgeous that Frank can feel it in his fucking teeth. 

Gerard makes quick time of pulling up Daredevil on Netflix, like he’s done this several times before. Frank takes a peak at some of the things he’s got on his list, and there’s a surprising number of chick flicks, but Frank decides to pretend that he hadn’t seen them. Maybe Gerard just really likes the hot girls who star in them. Who is Frank to judge when he’s seen The Proposal at least twelve times?

Frank doesn’t start out particularly into Daredevil, because Frank usually starts out bored and the real test of a movie or show is make him not bored anymore. This is usually accomplished by pouring several buckets of blood on everything, which Daredevil does not have. Ten minutes through, though, Frank decides that he’s starting to enjoy it. 

Their pizza arrives at about the halfway point, and Gerard pauses, then has to fend off Frank who tries to offer to pay, but Gerard completely refuses to allow him to. 

“Listen, I’m forcing you to read a million comics, the least I can do is pay for the goddamn pizza,” Gerard says.

“But-”

“Hey, it’s my house, I make the rules. I say I’m paying for pizza,” Gerard replies. Frank sighs, but he accepts and allows Gerard to go to the door and get the pizzas. 

Gerard comes back a minute later with two boxes, and then he presses play on Daredevil before Frank even has the chance to say anything. Not like he had much of anything to say other than something like, “hey Gerard whenever I look at you, it proves why humanity was created. The existence of life is just so that someone as perfect as you could eventually come along.” He probably shouldn’t say that out loud, though.

Frank stays on his side of the couch for most of the show, looking at Gerard every so often and thinking about how amazing it would be to kiss him right about now. Gerard’s so entranced by the show that he forgets he’s meant to be eating, so every now and again Frank will turn to him, blue light from the TV illuminating his face, and he’ll stop in the middle of chewing to just sort of gaze off lovingly at the screen. It’s the kind of stare Frank wishes were aimed at him instead of a TV show. He wishes that Gerard looked at him like he looks at Superheroes.

Gerard looks at him far more lovingly than at Superheroes, it’s just that Frank is too far in denial to notice it. Gerard looks at Frank the way you would look at a stack of a billion dollars in cash, or at the lost city of gold. Gerard looks at him like Frank is the answer to the universe which he’s been searching for all his life. Gerard looks at him like he’s never looked at anything before, with pure adoration and awe.

Frank remains relatively quiet throughout the first episode, and by the time that the credits come on, he turns to look at Gerard who’s giving him this highly anticipatory gaze which warms Frank heart more than he could ever have thought possible. Even if Frank didn’t like the show, which would be inaccurate to say, he couldn’t do or say anything that would hurt Gerard’s feelings.

Gerard’s got a look in his eyes asking, “so what did you think?” Frank smiles back in return, wishing that he could kiss Gerard as an answer. Show him how much he liked it rather than tell him.

“It’s really good,” is what Frank ultimately ends up saying. 

“Yeah?” Gerard asks, excited to hear Frank say the words out loud. “Want to watch the next episode then?” He so wishes he could grab Frank and pull him close, so that they can cuddle while watching Daredevil. Hold Frank closer to him, with his head on Gerard’s chest, a blanket swathing them in warmth. He could stay like that forever, keep Frank close to him, so close that he can hear Frank’s heartbeat. So close that their heats start to beat together. 

“Definitely,” Frank says, because he’s not an idiot so as to say no to spending more time with Gerard. He would spend the rest of his life on this couch with Gerard if he offered.

Gerard lets the episode play by itself, and Frank sighs sadly to himself when he remembers the space between them. They’re so dreadfully far apart when they could be next to each other, and he wants so much to make this couch smaller. He wants the couch to be a loveseat, forcing the two of them together. But unfortunately, it’s big enough that he can’t rationalize getting any closer to Gerard in a non-gay way. There’s simply no way to bridge the gap between them without it being a blatantly flirtatious move. 

They stay like that throughout the next episode. And then the next. And the next four. Followed by a couple more. 

Honestly, Frank’s not even aware that the sun has gone down, but eventually they’re on the final episode of the first season and Frank genuinely has no idea how the day got past him. He swears they only watched like four episodes. He doesn’t know how four somehow turned into thirteen. He’s also extremely annoyed that of those thirteen episodes, he made physical contact with Gerard like once when they brushed hands as Gerard handed him a can of coke. Definitely not the rough sex Frank had dreamed about last night. 

“Holy fuck, is that the time?” Frank asks when he looks down at his phone to see that it’s somehow become ten at night, which means that he has managed to spend quite literally half a day in Gerard’s apartment. He can’t help but to think about how much sex they could’ve had in that time. He wipes that image from his brain as quickly as it appears because it actually makes him blush just to think about. 

“Shit,” Gerard says when he checks his own watch. “I didn’t even mean for that to happen, I thought we would just go out for lunch and then you’d leave. Sorry about that.”

“No, no I’m totally okay with it. I really liked the show,” Frank says.

“Yeah?” Gerard asks, looking very happy about that. “You’re going to love the comics then. They’re actually really accurate. The actors on the show are really perfect for the characters.” Gerard leaves out the part where he’d totally fuck Matt Murdock against a wall, because he feels like that’s ill placed. Also, he’d still rather fuck Frank against a wall. 

“I should head back home, though,” Frank says, “I mean, it’s getting kind of late.”

“Yeah, probably not a bad idea,” Gerard says. “I’m really glad we did this, though, I’m glad you liked the show. Now it’ll be easier for you to get into the comics, right? Cause like, now you know how amazing they can be.”

“Definitely,” Frank says, and he grabs the stack of comics Gerard had given him which he’d set down on the coffee table. 

Gerard walks him to the door, Frank making it as slow a procession as he possibly can. He wants to spend more time with Gerard. Even though they’ve literally spent the whole day together, it doesn’t feel like enough. Frank is actually completely wiped, though, even though all he’s done today is watch TV and eat pizza. He also did a lot of longing over Gerard which is a very exhausting days’ work, considering how many times Frank had to remind himself that he doesn’t get to have Gerard, each time he did so having taken at least five years from his life.

“I really hope you like them,” Gerard says, “tell me as soon as you finish any of them, okay? I’m totally prepared to have a three-hour long rant about the shading or the lettering or literally anything. Comics are my fucking life, there’s nothing I don’t love about them.”

“I will,” Frank says, smiling. “Though not tonight because I need to sleep.”

“Yeah, definitely,” Gerard replies. They exchange a few more pleasantries, it’s a little too formal considering they just spent the better part of a day together watching TV, but Frank doesn’t mind it so much. 

He fills the walk back to his dorm with thoughts of Gerard. All he can think about is the magnificence of him. He’s so beautiful, and funny, and passionate. Gerard is nothing if not passionate. When he likes something, he doesn’t half ass it, not even slightly. Gerard loves with all of his heart. Frank wishes that Gerard loved him the way that he loves comics. 

Frank peers into the ice rink because it’s on his way. It appears deserted, which is abnormal for the rink. He can’t quite see onto the ice itself, but the lights have been half turned off in the lobby, so clearly there is no one there. They usually have a practice on Saturday’s, however Coach decided to give them a break today because of their victories this week. Usually there’s only one Saturday a month where they get the day off, and that had been last week. Frank’s not exactly complaining, he needed the day off. He needed a lazy day all to himself. And with Gerard, of course. 

Frank walks groggily through the door to his room a quarter past eleven, and he finds it surprisingly deserted. He supposes that Ray is out on the town or doing something far more interesting than spending all of his day watching TV and fawning over someone he can’t have. Frank collapses at his desk, his every thought filled with Gerard.

He realizes now how empty he feels out of Gerard’s company. In the absence of Gerard’s smell is the room around him, which smells like dirty laundry and febreeze. It’s not nearly as warming a smell as the one surrounding Gerard. Frank wishes he could bottle it, and keep it with him. Whenever he feels sad, Gerard would be able to cheer him up. He’d also be able to bring him down, because Gerard has that effect over him. Gerard is going to be his ultimate defeat, but he’s also his secret weapon. 

Frank looks around his room, with the inadequacy of it becoming stronger at every glance around him. It’s just not as good as Gerard’s place. There’s more posters, and far less clutter, but it’s not Gerard’s apartment, which suddenly makes everything in it seem lesser. If it’s not Gerard, what’s the point of it at all?

Frank doesn’t want to be here right now, he can’t explain why, but he knows it’s the truth. Frank sighs, thinking about what he can do right now. He doesn’t know where Ray is, so he can’t join him. He could always text him, but that seems like too much effort. He also kind of just wants to be by himself so that he can think about Gerard, and if he’s in someone else’s company, he won’t have that. All he’ll have is the feeling that they are not as good as Gerard. Gerard is good company even when the two of them sit on the couch doing nothing but watch Daredevil. 

Frank then remembers the empty rink, and he makes his mind up very quickly after that thought. Frank grabs his skates from where he hides them in the space between his desk and the wall. He checks what he’s wearing, debating whether it’s worth it to change, but he decides that it doesn’t really matter that much, so he’s out the door very quickly, only a couple of minutes after he’d come through it. 

The distance to the ice rink seems to get shorter every time Frank walks the path. It’s a familiar path, as well, one he knows incredibly well. He hasn’t practiced figure skating in nearly two weeks now, he just hasn’t found the time or the energy. 

The doors are locked when Frank gets there, which is a good sign for him, because it means that someone who was here before him decided to close it up for the night. Frank takes out the key Gerard gave him, unlocking the doors and then locking them again right behind him. It’s a little riskier doing this right now rather than in the early hours of the morning, so he doesn’t want anyone to be able to get in behind him. 

Frank shuts off all of the lights that are still on as he walks through the entrance into the locker room. He makes quick work getting his skates on and shoving everything else into his locker.

Frank’s on the ice before he even thinks about it, so hungry to feel the ice beneath his feet. Every time he does this it feels like it’s been years. It’s a secret between him and the rink, and it gives him somewhat of a rush as well as a panic knowing that he could get caught at any time. 

Frank doesn’t even give himself any tasks this time around, he doesn’t care about actually practicing, he honestly just wants to be on the ice. He doesn’t care if it’s good or bad, or anything really. He doesn’t care what he looks like. Frank just wants to skate, wants the familiarity of it all. 

He spends ten or twenty minutes just skating around the perimeter of the ice, doing nothing overly adventurous. Frank does a couple single and double axles not quite landing all of them, but he doesn’t care. Mostly he does various spins, all of which come easy to him. Usually he’s very harsh on himself, beating himself up over every little error, but today he’s kind of on a high from being with Gerard, and he’s letting the skating represent that. It’s not about being good or doing his best, it’s just about representing his own emotions. 

He’s all over the place mentally. He can’t stop thinking about Gerard, and it’s thinking about him that drives and motivates him now. All he can think about is how he wants to show the way he feels about Gerard through his skating. 

He can’t do this in hockey, hockey isn’t about grace or about beauty. Hockey is about getting where you need to go, taking out anyone who tries to get in your way, showing the room who’s boss. Figure skating is a dance, a game of visual appeal. Frank wants to represent all the emotions he has and the only way to do that is on the ice.

Meanwhile, Gerard trundles through the cold air, thinking about how absent he feels now that Frank isn’t with him. The world seems a crueler place when he’s not here. It’s like all the hate and the misery in the world are more prominent, vividly so, all around him. Everything just seems so terrible, so unworthy of Frank’s existence. Because really, Frank is too good for everything that Gerard knows. He’s too good for the team, too good for the lesser players who he competes with and against. He’s too good for Gerard, that’s for certain. He’s just too good for all that there is, and it’s a miracle that the world would ever allow such an angel to be surrounded by such darkness.

Gerard stares at the building looming over him which he knows Frank is currently in, possibly already asleep. He wishes he could crawl into bed next to him and hold him close, but he doesn’t get that luxury. Gerard takes a sharp turn before Lancaster hall for the ice rink, pulling the keys out of his pocket as he does so. The lights are already off, indicating that Coach has left for the day, so he’ll have the building to himself. Gerard just needs to take his mind off of Frank by busying himself with all the things that he really should’ve done today anyway. He just got so focused on spending time with Frank that he kind of forgot he had other responsibilities _besides_ Frank. 

The second that Gerard steps foot into the rink, he knows something is off. The lobby is dark and empty, but the lights to the rink itself are on. He walks the short distance to the top of the stands and then he sees a figure on the ice, which is unexpected to say the least. 

Gerard stares down at them, and rolls his eyes when he notes that they’re figure skating, which is one of Gerard’s least favorite things in the world. He leans against the wall for a minute, watching them, thinking a whole assortment of snarky things about them as he watches.

Gerard notes that it’s a boy, which surprises him considerably, because he doesn’t think he’s ever actually seen a male figure skater, but to be fair, Gerard does avoid figure skaters as best as he possibly can, because his hatred of it is very strong. He knows that boys figure skate, it’s not like he’s unaware that they do, he just doesn’t care.

He can’t see the boy’s face because he’s moving too fast, and he’s too far away. The boy hasn’t noticed Gerard watching him, though. He seems to be far too busy figure skating, too locked away in his own little word to even think that someone could be spying on him. It’s not like anyone would expect to be spied on right now, it’s getting quite late, and there haven’t been any practices here at all today, the rink has been relatively empty all day. 

Then it occurs to Gerard that the door had been locked. It’s the kind of door that you need a key to both lock and unlock. That means that whoever is down there must somehow have gotten ahold of a key. Gerard has a bit of a panic for a second, thinking that he lost his own key, but then remembers that he used it to get in here, so he clearly didn’t. 

It all clicks in Gerard’s head as quickly as a snap of his fingers. The boy has black hair, just like Frank. He’s got a key and managed to get in here, just like Frank. He skates with femininity and confidence, just like Frank. 

The person on the ice stops for a second, his head facing the direction Gerard’s in, but his head is down as he tries to catch his breath, so he hasn’t noticed his audience yet. Gerard takes the opportunity to duck and hide behind the seats. As he peers through the gap between the seats, he manages to make out the face of the figure below him. What he sees confirms his suspicions. It’s Frank. 

“Frank?” Gerard asks himself, almost too aghast to comprehend that that even is Frank on the ice. 

How can it be Frank? It’s not even possible. Frank is a hockey player, he’s not a figure skater. He’s the best player on the team, he’s not… he can’t be. 

But it is Frank. That’s Frank’s face. Those are the same clothes that Frank had been wearing earlier while he was with Gerard. Everything about this person is Frank. And yet Gerard can scarcely believe it. How on earth could this person be Frank?

Frank is figure skating. He’s a fucking _twirler_. One of the things in the world Gerard hates most, a fucking figure skater, but it’s Frank. Frank is one of his favorite goddamn things in this world, and yet he’s doing Gerard’s least favorite thing in the world.

He becomes a rivaling clash of a thousand different emotions. He’s mostly filled with denial, and confusion. He can’t believe that this could possibly Frank, it feels like his eyes are deceiving him. It’s simply not possible for the man that has scored basically half of all of the goals they’ve gotten this season could possibly be the same man who is now spinning with his foot in the air like that. No way for this to be the same person. 

Underneath his confusion, Gerard’s a little bit angry. He’s angry that one of the best hockey players that the team has ever seen could ever dirty his reputation by twirling. How could Frank betray the sport like that? How could he ever think that it’s okay? It’s not okay to figure skate. Figure skating makes hockey a joke. It trivializes all the effort and strength that goes into hockey. It’s an insult. It personally offends Gerard to his very core.

Beneath even that is something that resembles being impressed, though Gerard would never in a million years admit to it. He hates figure skating, absolutely loathes it, but despite that, he can’t help but be amazed at how good Frank is at it. He hates himself for thinking it, but it’s actually impressive. He jumps into the air, spins, and then lands back on the ice with only one foot, which Gerard refuses to admit is an astonishing task, even though it is. Gerard could never do anything like that, though he’s never skated in anything but hockey skates. It’s undeniably impressive, but that doesn’t stop him from denying it anyway. 

Gerard is caught between a whole assortment of options at this whole thing. He can either laugh his fucking ass off right here and now, and then proceed to make fun of Frank to his face. He can take a video of him fucking _twirling_ , post it on Facebook and publicly shame him into exile. He can leave right now and then tell the whole team tomorrow so that he can spare Frank the public humility a little bit, but resign him to a life of shame amongst the team. 

Gerard can, and he very much should, do all of these things. 

What he does instead, is crouch further in his spot hidden in a seat and watch him. Though he doesn’t know the terminology of it, he watches Frank land a double lutz like it’s nothing, like he does it in his sleep. Gerard suppresses what he thinks might be a laugh, but it’s more likely a gasp. It’s really up to interpretation. He doesn’t want to accept it within himself that he’s fascinated by watching him. He’s actually enthralled by Frank’s form, by watching his grace. He’s absolutely majestic, simply breathtaking. 

Frank just sort of glides, that’s the thing. He doesn’t look clunky and massive like he does in his hockey gear. He just looks like a swan who’s having a relaxing little swim while no one is watching. He’s dazzling, gorgeous, somehow more beautiful than he usually is which is saying something. 

Gerard watches him for several minutes, doesn’t know how long it’s been, because he’s so mesmerized by Frank’s performance. He doesn’t notice any of Frank’s stumbles, doesn’t know that he’s even making any mistakes. He doesn’t know what to look for, though. He just thinks Frank is gorgeous out there. 

Frank comes out of his final double into a perfect pose, his back facing Gerard as he addresses the spot where the judges would be, and Gerard feels the urge to clap for him, because that’s what you’re supposed to do at the end of a routine, unless of course, you are a hockey player, in which the correct response is to boo, throw tomatoes, or just run onto the ice and push the guy over.

Gerard can see how heavy Frank’s chest is rising, deep, hard breaths coming in and out that Gerard can practically hear from here. He can tell Frank’s exhausted, completely worn out. He can practically feel how tired Frank’s bones are. He hates figure skating, always accredits it to being easy, but he can tell right now that what Frank just did was not easy, not by any means. 

He feels like he just witnessed an entirely too personal moment. This is worse than walking in on a dude jerking off, because at least both parties go to bed that night knowing that the other person jerks off all the fucking time too. This is just way more emotional. This is catching someone doing something way bigger than masturbating. This is a monumental thing, the sort of dance that Frank just performed only for himself, it’s something that you wouldn’t even share with other people, obviously not given that Gerard never even knew Frank figure skated. This is like walking into someone’s brain and watching the inner most mechanics of their mind.

Gerard should leave. He shouldn’t have been here at all. He shouldn’t have barged in on a moment as personal as this. 

He stays though, mesmerized by Frank going back in and starting off anew, as if what Gerard just witnessed wasn’t good enough. Gerard just went through an _emotional ordeal_ simply watching him, there’s no way that what he just witnessed wasn’t good enough. But Frank goes again, letting his body move him differently, trying to interpret the way he feels like it’s a totally new medium. Every move of his is flawless to Gerard, every single second he spends on the ice forcing Gerard to question everything he knows about the world.

He needs to leave, he shouldn’t be here. Gerard stands up slowly, and he walks quietly up the few steps and into the shadow of the hall before Frank can see him, but it’s not like he’s going to notice him as he does a sit spin that seems to go on forever. 

Gerard gets a few last glances at Frank, this is his last moment to take a video that will permanently scar Frank for the rest of his life.

Gerard walks back the way he’d came, not allowing himself to turn back, not allowing himself to even consider trying to cause a scandal. Frank doesn’t deserve that, not when he almost made Gerard fucking _cry_ with what he just witnessed.

Gerard doesn’t bother going into the office to do the work he’d come here to do. He doesn’t want to even stay in the ice rink, he’s too terrified of what Frank would say if he found out Gerard had been here. So, Gerard instead walks to the door, opening it quietly, and slipping back to the world outside where everything is normal, in no way changed by the alternate reality Gerard just walked into. 

Gerard walks along the pavement, his heart beat erratic, footsteps heavy, and his thoughts infinitely changing. He can’t explain it, but Gerard feels _different_ , and he’s not entirely sure it’s a bad thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way I'm seeing Green Day tomorrow so if I never update this fic ever again it's because I died from excitement.


	19. Changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's such a huge difference between today and tomorrow.

Frank wakes up to the world much the same as it always has been. Of course, he’s unaware of what Gerard discovered last night, so his life is the same as always. It’s normal, or whatever you can call Frank’s small little excuse for normal anyway. 

Frank looks around, sees Ray sleeping down on the bed below him, like a dog, or a sack of bricks. Luckily, he doesn’t snore. He does have the occasional snore when he’s in a deep sleep, a particularly loud one woke Frank up a week or two ago, and he decided that if Ray had woken him up, he’d wake Ray up, so he threw a sock at his face. 

It’s too late to be considered morning, and Frank’s surprised Ray’s still asleep, the whole world has woken up before the two of them. Frank owes it to the fact that he was out all night, with Gerard and then at the ice rink. By the time he’d come back from the ice rink last night, Ray had already come home and fallen asleep, so he doesn’t have an excuse. Frank doesn’t want to wake him up though, not on a weekend at least.

There’s that dismal Sunday gloom in the atmosphere that Frank is used to. It’s a very unpleasant feeling, not incomparable to the feeling you’d get waking up the day of your scheduled execution, and Frank frowns when he glares at the floor beneath him. He’s got a whole day left of the weekend, and yet it seems like it’s already over. 

Nevertheless, Frank pulls himself out of bed, nearly falls flat on his face as he climbs out of his bed, which he’s sure is getting taller every time he climbs in or out of it. Frank dresses quickly, not entirely sure what he’s going to be doing with today, but sure that he doesn’t want to just sit inside all day. 

Frank’s not entirely sure what date it actually is. He knows his birthday is coming up in a matter of days, however he has neither brought this up with his teammates, nor does he intend to. Frank’s birthdays are always modest, the only time he’s ever announced his birthday to anyone is when he’s sitting at a restaurant and wants his free dessert, which is an annual tradition that he intends to collect on again this year. Maybe he’ll tell Gerard, or Pete. He might even get an actual present from someone as opposed to the ones he gets from his mom, grandma, and aunt. 

Frank gets a little giddy thinking about Gerard giving him a present, because he knows, just _knows_ , Gerard would probably buy him a Captain America bobblehead or a Wonder Woman action figure, or something else equally as dorky. Then again, Gerard’s got that Star Wars sort of vibe to him, and although Frank has yet to confirm it, he’s fairly sure that Gerard could probably name all of the planets in the Star Wars universe. This is something they could easily bond over. 

Pete’s the kind of guy who would buy someone a novelty mug for their birthday. 

After stubbing his foot on his desk, hopping around and cussing silently to himself, and then whining a little bit when it continues to throb, Frank finally leaves his room. He makes for the front door mindlessly, his eyes on the carpet, tracing the patterns with his eyes as he steps over them. 

At the very least, what he’ll do with the next few hours is convince someone to walk around town with him so he can actually start to get to know his surroundings. Frank is not entirely sure what is even in town, because so far he has not stepped more than about a hundred feet of campus. Gerard’s apartment was the furthest he’s been in town apart from when he got here from the airport, but everything had been dark and gloomy then so Frank still doesn’t really know what’s around town. He does know it’s a cute, small little place with few chains, mostly mom and pop stores. 

Frank steps outside of the dorm before actually looking around and he is very much surprised to be greeted by crunching under his feet. He looks down to see that somehow, overnight, snow had begun to fall, and when he looks up he notices the tiny, wet snowflakes falling down around him. They’re the kind that aren’t likely to stick, and melt away the second they touch anything besides more snow. Frank looks up at the sky above him though, a dazzling white to match the snow falling from it, and he smiles contentedly to himself. Frank is awfully fond of snow, it makes the world a little quieter, a little more serene. 

Frank prefers winter to summer, probably because he prefers being cold to being hot. He also just really likes the vibe of winter, it’s very soft and cozy and pleasant, as opposed to summers emphasis on having the most fun you can which makes it a competition that ultimately no one ends up winning. Frank vastly prefers winter break to summer break too, for obvious reasons. He loves the holidays, but he also just really loves drinking hot cocoa, wearing warm sweaters, spending time with his mom, and watching winter movies on the Family channel. 

Now if there’s anything Frank prefers to the winter holidays, it’s Halloween. Frank may not celebrate his birthday very extravagantly, but he sure as fuck celebrates Halloween. It’s just a complete coincidence that they fall on the same day of the year. 

Everything about Halloween is amazing. The horror movies, the dressing up, the pumpkin spice lattes, the general macabre that happens to creep around every corner of the world. Frank’s never really gotten to celebrate Halloween with anyone, though.

Back when he was a kid, Hayley would go trick or treating with him. She was his neighbor, and enough older than him for her to be responsible to take care of Frank so long as they were only a few blocks away from their houses. Hayley used to be the best at costumes, she always beat Frank, who was Han Solo for about four years in a row until he grew out of the vest. 

Frank’s more than a little bit excited to actually see what Halloween will be like this year. It’ll be his first Halloween with friends, so it’s sure to be a night to remember. Especially the part where he follows Gerard wherever he goes. 

Frank’s crush has gotten about three million times worse than it had been two days ago. He was infatuated with Gerard beyond comprehension two days ago, but after yesterday, Frank’s love for him has skyrocketed. Frank would let Gerard murder him if he asked. Frank would let Gerard step all over him, so he needs to be a little bit careful around the guy or he’ll end up just handing him his wallet. 

Frank’s not paying attention to where he’s going, a dangerous habit of his that he can’t stop even if he tried. He looks up, at the still falling snow, to see Pete’s dorm in front of him. He shrugs and decides it’s as good a place as any, and makes his way into it. He passes by several people wearing various cozy looking hats which Frank wishes he had thought to bring, but he didn’t know that it was snowing at the time, so now he’s just got to live with that.

Frank walks the hall to Pete’s room, knocking on the door when he gets there, and hearing a familiar “come in” a moment later.

Frank opens the door to see Patrick, alone in the room looking down at his phone like he’s engrossed in something. It appears as though he’s being torn away when he looks up to see Frank, who smiles at him, and then looks around to see that the curtains on the window have been drawn to display the harsh white of the world outside. 

“Hey, Frank,” Patrick says, in that voice of his that really reminds Frank of maple syrup for some reason. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” Frank shrugs. “Just kind of… bored. Or, I don’t know, I’ve only been awake a little while, I don’t know what I’m doing today to begin with.”

“Oh, well Pete’s not here. He’s been at the library all weekend doing this huge paper, so he’s not going to be coming back anytime soon.”

“That’s fine,” Frank says, because he’s just as fine with Patrick’s company as anyone else’s. Now if it were up to him, he’d be with Gerard, but he’s also super self-conscious and doesn’t want to go running back to Gerard only a day after they’d spent the entire day together. 

“Um, well, you know, we still have that article to do, if you want?” Patrick offers, and Frank has a sudden flash of memory. He’d almost entirely forgotten about Patrick’s article, it had completely slipped his mind. 

“Oh, right,” Frank says, in a not entirely opposing voice, like he’s considering it genuinely. Patrick’s not sure if its ever going to happen, which he supposes is fine, but it’s something he’s been wanting to write for a year now, and he hasn’t gotten the chance or opportunity so it’s been a little bit of a bummer. He knows he’d be able to write a really inspiring, touching article if he were given the chance, but it hasn’t come up. Frank’s been a little impish about the whole thing, so he’s not entirely sure if it’s ever going to happen or if it’s more like a friend saying “we should hang out sometime” and then never talking to that friend again. 

“It’s cool if you don’t want to, Frank, I mean it’s not that big of a deal, and-”

“You know what?” Frank says, when he thinks about it and considers the completely empty schedule he’s got ahead of him today. “Yeah, actually. We should, I’ve got the whole day free, why not?”

“Really?” Patrick asks, looking excited. His ears perking up as he looks eagerly at Frank, like a puppy who just heard the word “walk.”

“Yeah,” Frank says, nodding, and actually looking somewhat eager, not necessarily excited but the best one could hope for. 

“Okay, yeah, yes,” Patrick says, standing up and walking over to his desk to grab his computer. Frank grabs the chair at Pete’s desk, pulls it out and spins it around so that he can actually look at Patrick who busies himself loading the computer up. 

There’s really not much prelude, quite a bit of uncomfortable tension and the sound of a trackpad clicking, and then Patrick’s looking up at Frank, concern evident in his eyes. He’s a little wary about this whole thing, nervous that Frank’s going to end up regretting this decision. 

“Frank, are you sure you want to do this?” Patrick asks.

“Pretty sure.”

“Pretty sure? Frank, I’m going to need you to be a hundred percent positive if you want to go through with this.”

“I know, I know,” Frank says, “I want to. I do.”

“Are you sure? Because you don’t have to. You don’t owe it to anyone to do this, the decision is entirely yours. Not mine, not ours, _yours_.”

“I know,” Frank says. “But I think it’s the right thing to do. Even if no one empathizes with it, you get one hell of an article out of it. It might even be publicity for the team, which we need. No one comes to see us.”

“But I just don’t want you to regret doing this,” Patrick says. 

“I won’t,” Frank nods, “as long as it’s kept completely anonymous. I’m not, I mean, I can’t be the only gay hockey player there is. I know I’m not even the only one on the team. What if there are other people, in other sports? What if my mere existence might be able to help them? I just, I have to try. I have to. For Pete.”

“For Pete,” Patrick repeats to himself. 

“That’s the reason you asked me to do this article, isn’t it? You want to help Pete. You want to help others like Pete.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says. “I just want people to not feel so alone. Pete’s just, he’s so broken, I don’t think you fully understand. It breaks my heart, breaks it in two. I love Pete. I love him so much, so beyond words. I just want him and other people like him, like us, really, to not feel like they’re fighting a war all on their own.”

“That’s why I want to do this. Because of everything you just said,” Frank replies, and then Patrick nods, finally looking like he’s convinced of Frank’s assuredness. 

Frank isn’t as sure about this as he is making himself seem. He’s very nervous, unbelievably, irreparably so. But Pete is probably his best friend, as much as he likes the rest of the guys at this school. Pete’s the one who’s company makes him feel the most alive, other than Gerard, who he’s mostly too nervous to hang out with. Frank just wants to help people, like Pete, like himself, like Patrick. There’s so many of them, so many of him, and it’s not fair that they’re all in the dark. 

“Okay,” Patrick nods, and he takes a deep breath. “Are you ready to start then?” 

“Yeah,” Frank nods. 

“Alright,” Patrick says, looking down at the computer on his lap. A little while ago when they talked about the article, Frank had refused to allow Patrick to record the interview. It’s not because he doesn’t trust Patrick to keep that recording only to himself, but because people lose things all the times, and it’s incredibly easy to break into a dorm room once you’re in the building. Morgan lives in this hall. Frank knows it’s irrational, but the mere thought of a recording of Frank admitting he’s gay being in such close proximity to Morgan wigs him out. Morgan would have no reason to suspect such a thing exists, but Frank’s still not willing to incriminate himself. 

Part of Frank is slightly worried that Pete might come back to the room sometime soon, even though Patrick assured him that Pete was at the library trying to get a huge paper done. He could still come back. Even if he does, they don’t have to tell him what they were doing. Frank does still intend to tell Pete eventually, that time just hasn’t come quite yet. 

“Alright, are you ready?” Patrick asks, and Frank nods. “Okay first question, here we go. I’m going to get some background about you before we get into any specifics, if that’s alright. I obviously won’t publish anything that might even kind of lead people to believe it’s you, not age, not grade, not hometown, not anything like that. I just, for my question, would like for you to tell me how long you’ve known you were gay?”

“Um, well,” Frank starts, thinking back. Come to think of it, Frank never had a moment where it clicked for him. He never had anything like that, there was no eureka moment. He also can’t remember not knowing. It’s almost like he’s always known, or that he never considered that he wasn’t. He doesn’t remember ever thinking he’s straight. “It kind of has been something I’ve always known, and not, like, in the back of my mind or anything like you hear people say sometimes. I’ve just, like always known. From when I was a kid to now, it’s just been a fact about me that has always been true. Like, I’m pretty sure the first crush I ever had was on another boy and it was in about fifth grade. I think that was about the time when I realized that liking boys wasn’t the socially accepted thing to do, so I guess if anything, my answer is fifth grade, that’s when I knew. Before then, I didn’t know that I was anything other than human, it was right about then that I realized that being gay was even a thing.”

Patrick nods, and then types away furiously, trying to keep time with Frank as he’s speaking. There’s a minute of silence with just the sound of a keyboard clicking as Frank waits for him to write Frank’s response, before Patrick is nodding and then looking at the screen to find the next question.

“Okay, I know the answer to this, but I’d like it in your own words. Does anyone know you’re gay? And remember, Frank, that I’m going to be telling the public that I don’t even know your identity so you can feel free to say that no one knows, not even me.”

“Alright,” Frank nods. He thinks about Hayley, but decides that he doesn’t want to describe her, because of the fact that she’s not related to him. It sounds kind of precarious for him to say a childhood friend when everyone knows he’s still in contact with Hayley, who is a childhood friend. He doesn’t want that to lead anyone to him. “No one knows. Not my family, not anyone. Not a single soul.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I’m afraid,” Frank says. “I’m absolutely petrified of people finding out. I don’t want anyone to judge me based on that. I don’t want that to be my master status, I don’t want to be the gay dude, I just don’t want that to be who I am in other people’s eyes. I’m also, like terrified of the negativity. So many people don’t care, and that means a lot, it does, but however many people as that may be, it doesn’t change the fact that there are some people who aren’t okay with it, who would vilify me just for who I am. It scares me, you know. There are people, people at this very school, who would see my head on a pike before allowing me to so much as date someone I like, and that scares me. It terrifies me to not be universally accepted, because straight people are all accepted for who they love. No one has a problem with them, but it’s different for me. Because when no one knows, I am accepted. Everyone accepts me, even if they don’t like me, they don’t ostracize me because of a preconceived prejudice, I am the same as all straight people if no one knows. If people do know, though, everyone will know I’m gay, and I’ll start to be a little bit less of a person in their eyes. Especially in the eyes of people who aren’t okay with it.”

Patrick nods, and Frank stops talking when he can sense that Patrick’s having trouble keeping in time with him. He waits, looks back at Patrick patiently. Finally, Patrick types the last few words and moves on to the next question.

“Have you ever witnessed or experienced any homophobia firsthand?” Patrick asks.

“Well, I’m on a hockey team. I share a locker room with a bunch of other guys, who love to use gay as an insult, who make offensive jokes about gay people, and who make being gay a bad thing. They never cease to insult each other by insinuating that someone else is gay. I just have to laugh along with it and pretend that it doesn’t offend me. Because like, being gay isn’t bad, but for the entire time I’ve played hockey I’ve had to face that fact that people use it as the ultimate diss. Calling someone else gay is basically the same as calling them less than human, calling them worse than everyone else. It makes me feel like garbage. I feel unwanted by my own team, and I shouldn’t have to feel that about a team. A team is meant to be about togetherness, yet I feel like I’m being kicked apart at every turn, and there’s nothing I can do about it. It hurts. It’s painful. It’s a personal attack, and they don’t know it. If they did, though, there’s a good chance things would get worse. There’s an incredibly huge chance I’d have to quit the team. Because being gay and playing sports don’t go together. You’re not allowed to be both. And I have to say it’s not fair. I wish I didn’t have to sacrifice my personality for doing something that I love.”

“So, to you, what does it mean to be a gay hockey player?”

“It means that no matter how good I am at the game and how hard I work at it, the team won’t ever accept me. That’s why I can’t tell them the truth. I’d rather be a closeted hockey player for the rest of my life and completely dominate at the game, then to be an out ex-player whose dreams were squashed.”

“Do you think you’ll ever come out publicly?” Patrick asks. Frank has to think about that one for a spell. He’s never considered being out publicly with any practicality. He’s never imagined it realistically at all. He’s only ever imagined what he would like for things to be. But he’s never considered actually doing it. He doesn’t know how he feels about the idea of it.

On the one hand, Frank would love to be out, to not have to hide in the shadows. To maybe find a boyfriend for once in his life and then get to be proud about it. But on the other hand, he can’t really have both, or at least, not in the current climate.

“I think, maybe in the future if the world gets a little less cruel about being gay. If people are less prejudice about it, I think I will come out. If I feel that I can, that is. If I ever feel like I’m in a place where I can have the best of both worlds, being out and being a hockey player, then I will. But until then, it’s unrealistic. The world I live in now won’t allow for me to exist in it as both a hockey player and a gay man. So, until the day comes when I can tell the world, I will remain in the closet. Sad thing is that it’s not for my sake, it’s so that the guys I play with can keep their fragile masculinity in tact.”

“What do you hope that this article will prove?” Patrick asks.

“Well, mainly, I want people to know I’m here. I want people to think twice about their straight goggles. Everyone assumes that everyone on the team is straight because no one has ever said that they’re not, and in the eyes of everyone around us, straight is the default. Being straight is just assumed. I don’t want to reveal my name, but I want people to know that they’re wrong. I want them to reconsider the way they see the world. I am out here. I am here, and I am fighting, and I will not stop fighting until the day I die. And I am not the only one. Don’t assume we’re all straight just because no one’s said otherwise. And I want people to take that information and carry it into other sports, other activities, other walks of life, eventually into our everyday lives. I want people to know that not everyone is straight, and you need to start treating people that way. Like, the guys who I share a locker room with, I want them and people like them, to know that they’re gay jokes are not going unheard by gay men. They’re being openly homophobic and that secret is not safe between other straight people. There are gay people all around you, and you need to grow up and start behaving accordingly.

I also want to maybe inspire all the other gay people on sports teams, or doing anything, really, who are afraid to come out, or who feel like they’re alone. I want them to know they’re not fighting a battle by themselves. And for the people who aren’t gay, I you to know that gay people all around you. I guarantee that someone you know is gay, and if they haven’t told you, it’s because _they’re_ afraid of _you_. It’s never their fault that they don’t tell you, you’re always partially accountable. I know that I am not the only one. I am not the only gay person on this campus, let alone involved with a sport. We are all around, and so many of us feel the way I do. We feel rejected, hurt, alone, and just really broken because of who we are, and it’s not fair. It’s not fair that we have to go at it alone when there’s nothing wrong with us. We shouldn’t have to be alone when there’s hope to be spread. I would love to spread hope, or even just comfort. I know it would be comforting to me to know that there’s more gay people out there, so I hope that I can give that feeling to others.”

“Wow,” Patrick says, typing away as quick as he can, though he can’t write down every single one of Frank’s words. He absolutely would if he could, Frank’s _almost_ got a way with words. Almost. He’s just a little off the mark, but he’s damn good at just speaking. He’d probably be a boss at poetry.

Frank blushes, feeling like a blabbermouth. He sometimes has word vomit that he can’t prevent from saying, which has gotten him in trouble a few times. At least he’s good at keeping secrets though, because otherwise his life would be a whole lot more difficult than it needs to be. 

“So what’s your next question?” Frank asks.

“Uh, well, honestly I’ve covered most of the questions I have. The article is going to be pretty long, anymore and I’ll have to torture myself trying to cut it down to size,” Patrick says, which Frank infers as Patrick calling him a windbag that doesn’t shut up. He turns a little brighter shade of red than he already had been and then feels a little bit ashamed of himself. 

“It’s going to be good, I can tell you that much. This article is going to blow up the entire school, it’ll be great.”

“I hope it does something,” Frank shrugs, “Doesn’t just sit there at the bottom of a column under an ad for a mop.”

“It’ll get attention, trust me,” Patrick says, “my editor says that there are just some headlines that blow up, and when you’ve got a secret and an anonymous interview together, holy crap, all hell is gonna break loose. But hopefully it’ll be good. Good attention, I don’t see how it could be anything but. I mean, yeah a few people are going to be upset about their being a gay guy, namely, the rest of the hockey players, but I think it’s finally going to give you and Pete, and everyone else, the attention you deserve. You get the attention and the recognition without having to risk your place on the team.”

“Everything’s going to change after this gets published, isn’t it?” Frank asks.

Patrick shrugs, but then considers the question some more and realizes that Frank might be right. Everything is going to change. It’s not like people don’t know that there’s gay people around them, it’s just easy to pretend there aren’t when no one publicizes it. This article will disprove that notion. It’ll force them to start seeing that the world isn’t as black and white as they have come to believe. There are people all around them, even on sports teams, who aren’t straight. Facing that fact is not a task lightly taken on. It’s quite a huge feat. Frank being a single anonymous hockey player who’s gay conjures up an entire world of potentially gay people. This school needs that. It needs a breath of fresh air for people like Frank. People who feel marginalized just because of who they are. 

Frank wants to change the world. He wants to be the best goddamn hockey player the world has ever seen. Frank doesn’t want to just be as good as Gretzky, he wants to be better. He wants to take on the world, change it for the better, leave his mark and make sure his name will be remembered for eons. This article, even if his name isn’t attached to it, it’s a stepping stone to that goal. Frank wants to change the world in any way that he can, and this article just might be his way of doing it. Sometimes he thinks being gay is the easier way of going about change then being a hockey player. Being both, he has the potential to make history, but he doesn’t want to find his mark in history that way. Or at least, he doesn’t want that _yet_.

“Alright, so since I just interviewed you, I mean I guess I owe you something in return, don’t I?”

“Um, not necessarily,” Frank replies. He had agreed to be interviewed, Patrick never did. 

“Well, I’ll tell you a story anyway,” Patrick says. “Okay, so you know I’m bi, right? Well I didn’t know until… well until Pete came along. When Pete entered my life, honestly, I didn’t know what was happening, who I was, if I even was myself anymore. I just knew that everything felt different after him. I didn’t feel like myself, and it took me a few months to realize that it wasn’t that I didn’t feel like myself, the problem was that I never had felt like myself until I met him. Or at least, I didn’t feel like I was truly myself until I knew who I really was. I was, I _am_ finally myself with Pete, and all the time before him was just me being in denial, I think. It really took Pete’s arrival for me to come to terms with who I was. And now that I do know, honestly, I want to shout it from the rooftop, I want everyone to know. It’s not something I’m ashamed of or anything I feel needs to be kept secret. I do keep it a secret for Pete, because he’s got the same worries as you, but it’s not because I’m ashamed. I don’t ever think I’ll be ashamed of myself, not for this at least. I like guys, so what? Big deal. The truth is that it’s not a big deal, not unless you choose to make it one. 

“And the thing is, with Pete, I feel really safe. I feel loved, I feel wanted, and content and it doesn’t feel like two halves of my personality are warring with each other anymore. Even though it’s still a secret, something that I have to keep between myself and Pete, and now you, it doesn’t really feel that way. Sure, it sucks not to be able to call him my boyfriend or tell people I even have a boyfriend, but like, at the same time, it’s worth it because I have Pete anyway. Even if no one knows, I still have him. He’s still mine, and I still love him. Validation isn’t necessary as long as I know what it is that I have, and with Pete, what I have is the entire world.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Frank asks.

“Because it’s something for you to think about. Something for you to consider about… oh you know, anyone who you might like,” Patrick says, and though he doesn’t say the words, Frank gets a feeling that he knows that Frank’s got someone. He probably doesn’t know it’s Gerard, because if he did know he’d also know that Frank hasn’t got a chance with him, but Patrick definitely knows _something_. 

Frank doesn’t feel like he needs to give Patrick’s words a response, because he doesn’t think he wants Patrick to know it’s Gerard who he likes. He doesn’t need any one’s sympathies or condolences. He knows that he can’t ever have Gerard, he doesn’t need someone close to him, like Patrick, to remind him of that. With Hayley, he can talk about Gerard to his heart’s content and she won’t judge him for how he feels, because she doesn’t really know Gerard to begin with. Hayley might believe he stands a chance. If Patrick were to know, he’d just know how helpless Frank’s crush is, and Frank doesn’t think he can bear that. 

Frank doesn’t get much sleep that night. He’s too busy thinking about what might happen tomorrow when the article goes live. Patrick said he doesn’t want to prolong it, doesn’t want to have to push it off. It’s going live tomorrow. Frank’s entire world is going to change tomorrow. He doesn’t know if he’s ready for it. 

Frank doesn’t know what might actually change, but he’s expecting things to be dramatically different. Nothing is going to be the same after tomorrow. Frank might have just ruined his own life, but he doesn’t think so. There’s sixteen guys on the team, sixteen is a big number. There’s a lot of guys to choose from, which makes picking out the gay guy extremely difficult. Though, to be fair, it’s not a one in sixteen shot that someone will guess it right, it’s a two in sixteen shot. Frank’s not putting just himself on the line here. He could’ve just majorly ruined Pete’s life too. 

That’s a risk he’s terrified of. There’s a lot of risk to this. Though it would be world ending, Frank would rather have his own career and life ruined than have accidentally ruined Pete’s life. He just can’t let that happen. Pete doesn’t deserve to take the fall for what Frank did. Frank supposes that if anyone ever does suspect Pete, he’ll take the blame, cover for him. It’s the least he can do if Pete is put in the firing line. If it’s not his fault, Pete doesn’t deserve to take the grunt of it.

Frank hopes it doesn’t come to that. He thinks that the gains outweigh the risks, even if he doesn’t see them himself. He’s just nervous for the world he’s going to wake up to tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to buckle your seat belt. Please leave a comment.


	20. Fallout, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick’s a keeper and Pete’s an idiot.

The sun is shining much the same as it always has. Frank doesn’t know what he’d been expecting, for a chorus of angels to wake him up in his sleep or for the world to be surrounded by fire and ash. He knew that everything was going to be relatively anticlimactic, and yet here he is, looking out at the world through his window, and nothing has changed.

The snow on the ground doesn’t seem to have stuck, and Frank’s a little sad about that, as he’d been hoping for winter to come early this year. He was gearing up for a life of mittens and hats, he’s quite fond of being all warm and bundled up, but as of right now, it’s not that time yet. He could probably wear his winter stuff, but people really start to judge you for wearing a furry hat when it’s the end of October and it hasn’t even really snowed yet. 

Frank pulls himself out of his bed, hurries putting his clothes on, as he’s got an early morning class that he hopes to get a coffee before. He didn’t get a whole lot of sleep last night. Frank had a lot of difficulty falling asleep. Once he did fall asleep, it was smooth sailing until his alarm so rudely woke him up, but until that point everything was fine. Before it however, he was wrought with anxiety. That anxiety is still there now, possibly doubled in him, but when he was asleep he wasn’t aware of it. That’s the lovely thing about sleep, everything in the entire world stops, there’s no pain, sadness, grief, anxiety, no nothing. Just sleep. Frank really wishes he were still asleep now.

He hurries out of his room, saying very few words to Ray who woke up the same time he did, but is far more groggy and slow to get dressed. Frank hurries off, itching for his morning caffeine, sure that if he doesn’t get it he’s going to drop dead halfway through the day. Oddly enough, his own tiredness gives him somewhat of a spark, he’s so eager to get caffeine that he doesn’t even realize he’s as awake thinking about it as he will be when he gets a cup of coffee in his hands. 

Frank doesn’t notice anything out of the ordinary in his trek across campus. He really should have known that he world wouldn’t halt completely because of the article, but it does seem a little less spectacular than he had expected. He expected at least a little bit of light gossip, maybe a few surprised faces. He wasn’t expecting a build board or anything quite so ostentatious, but he was certainly expecting more than nothing at all. 

Frank grabs his coffee, so eager to drink it that he burns his tongue on the first sip, which prompts him to grumble to himself as he makes his way towards the lecture hall. Frank ends up in a seat about twenty minutes before class starts, so he takes this time to now check to make sure that the article actually went up in the first place.

Frank pulls out his phone, goes to the school website and from there he finds the newspaper. Frank is a little bit more than alarmed to see that the article is not the front page of the sports section. It’s the front page of the _paper_. As in, it’s the very first thing you see in the whole paper, not just the first sports story.

Frank looks at it, stares at the title a few times to determine if he’s seeing things correctly or if his mind is making things up. The title reads _Interview With a Closeted Hockey Player_. He blinks several times, refreshes the page, and scrolls up to the top a few times before determining that he is indeed seeing things correctly.

Frank gulps, and then tries to read it, before realizing that he’s not even paying attention to what he’s reading. He’s seeing the words, knows what they say and how to read them, but doesn’t let any of the information go anywhere but to the tip of his brain and then right back out. He’s not getting any of it, because his mind is racing. He’s in disbelief. He can’t believe that he, or more accurately, an anonymous gay hockey player, is on the front page of the school newspaper. 

Frank decides to give up after a few minutes. He was there, they’re his words, he spoke them. He doesn’t need to reread what he said. He knows what the article says, he obviously knows. He can’t bear to read his own words back at himself though, it’s like when actors say they can’t watch themselves act on a screen, Frank has the same feeling of something like disgust at indulging himself in what is literally himself. 

He makes a face at his phone, before turning it off and looking at the lecture hall around him, feeling like it’s become a little smaller since he was last here. The walls are just a little bit narrower, there just a few more people here. The board up front has gotten bigger in comparison to the retracting walls. It’s like the trash compacting scene in Star Wars and only slightly less harrowing. 

He’s having one of those Monday morning feelings, like everything has been taken away from him that he once had, but really it’s just depression that it’s no longer the weekend. It makes him feel very bitter though, it always seems like someone has stolen something very precious to you whenever Monday comes around. Frank has not grown out of this depression even in the fourteen years that he’s suffered through it. 

He attempts to busy his mind with something that will take off the edge of that depression. Obviously, the first thing that comes to him is Gerard, because Gerard is always at the top of his mind these days. He spent the whole fucking day with Gerard just two days ago. The whole goddamn day. He’s going to see Gerard again tonight at practice. He wonders what Gerard will think of the article. He’s sure by the time that practice comes, everyone on the team will have read the article at the very least. Even if the school doesn’t pick it up, the team still will. 

Gerard doesn’t seem like he’d be the kind of guy who would object, but then again, you can never really be sure with some people. Gerard seems too nice, too kind. Gerard’s a little _out there_ himself, a genuinely real comic book nerd, which isn’t as common today as it might have been twenty years ago. Gerard’s pretty dorky, he’s going on about either comics or something else which is not cool at every hour of the day. He’s also widely acknowledged as a space cadet, he’s a kind one at that, but he’s never as fully there as his physical form would have you believe. Sometimes Frank thinks Gerard has a foot in two different realities, and it gives him a completely different take on the world. Frank envies that about him, he’s so unabashedly _different_ from everyone else and has no shame about it.

To Frank, Gerard seems like a good person. Frank isn’t going to get his hopes up that Gerard’s gay or anything quite so fanciful, but he doesn’t come across as someone who’ll react negatively to the article. For Frank, that’s the most he can hope for. It’s possible that Frank just wants to believe that because he likes the guy, but he tends to be a good judge of character. He also tends to believe the worst in people, so the fact that he believes the best in Gerard says something monumental. 

Frank’s class is uninteresting at best, his professor comes in a few minutes late, clearly hungover, or possibly still drunk, and Frank just rolls his eyes, because while it’s entertaining at first, there does come a point where you need to be able to use a fucking computer mouse properly.

It's between Frank’s first class of the day and his second when he starts to notice a certain buzzing around campus. At first, Frank is just walking from one building to another, thinking about maybe stopping by a vending machine for a bag of chips to quell his hunger, he’s not even really paying attention to anything. Then he notices two people sharing one phone, as if they’re both reading something. As he keeps walking, he sees a guy sitting on one of those benches that’s been dedicated to some rich guy who donated a bunch of money to the school, reading something on his phone. Frank can’t quite see what it is, but he’s got a suspicion. 

Frank’s got his next class with Mikey and Ray, and when he makes it to the building, he sees Mikey coming at him from a different direction. He doesn’t see Ray, but he’s sure Ray will make an appearance sooner or later. Brendon’s also in this class, but he’s not really close with the guy. Mikey’s a little further off, but he jogs a ways to catch up with Frank, just before he’s about to enter the building. 

“Dude, have you seen the thing?” Mikey asks.

“The thing?” Frank questions, already knowing what Mikey is about to say.

“Patrick’s article!”

“Oh, right yeah. I mean, I saw it briefly, I didn’t read the whole thing,” he says. It’s not so much a lie, really. He doesn’t feel safe telling Mikey, Mikey is somewhat of an enigma. You can never tell what’s up with that guy. He looks harmless enough, but he also doesn’t show emotions on his face which makes him seem kind of like a serial killer. He’s generally a pretty nice guy, but he also seems like he’d probably murder someone for the kicks if he got bored. He _probably_ wouldn’t, but you can’t entirely rule it out. 

“Can you believe it?” Mikey asks, “there’s a gay guy on our team? Wonder how often that’s happened before.” Mikey thinks about his own brother, who, as far as Mikey knew, was the only gay hockey player Armstrong had ever seen. Mikey’s a little ignorant of how many gay people there actually are, but he genuinely didn’t believe that anyone on the team could actually be gay. Sports and gays don’t tend to go together. Not because gay people can’t like sports, but because sports players tend not to like gay people. 

“I don’t know,” Frank shrugs. Two doesn’t seem reasonable to Frank, even in the past when the world wasn’t as accepting, there were still gay people. There will always be gay people, and he’s sure a handful or two have found their way onto this hockey team, and probably thousands have ended up on other hockey teams. Just because none of them are out publicly doesn’t mean they’re not there, it just means that the world fucking sucks. 

“Who do you think it is?” Mikey asks the burning question that he’s sure everyone on the team, and many people on campus will soon be asking.

“I don’t know,” Frank shrugs.

“Oh, wouldn’t it be fucking great if it was Morgan,” Mikey says. “What a fucking plot twist that would be, right? Morgan the homophobic gay, gosh that sounds like a fucking teen movie.”

“Except not, because you can’t have a gay main character in a mainstream film,” Frank replies.

“Touché,” Mikey nods. He’s getting the feeling from Frank that he might not even care. Frank doesn’t seem all that interested in the article at all, which is kind of a hopeful sign for Mikey. Gerard hasn’t told anyone, not a person in the world besides him. Gerard tells Mikey fucking everything, though.

Gerard told Mikey he thought he was gay when he was in the seventh fucking grade. He came into his room, Mikey was a fourth grader, he needed Gerard to explain to him what being gay was. It was left in the air for a couple of years until Gerard was a sophomore and he was pretty fucking sure of himself right around then. Gerard just doesn’t keep anything from Mikey, not like he could if he wanted to. Gerard’s face is easy to read, or at least, it is to Mikey. 

Since then, Mikey has been very judgmental of other people based on their reactions to even the concept of gay people. Gerard and he have somewhat of a pact where they’d totally kill people for each other, would help the other hide the body, anything really. Like, he’d probably hold it over Gerard’s head for the rest of his life, mostly in a joke sort of way, but he’d still absolutely fucking kill someone for him. 

Mikey tends to react to people talking about gay people very harshly, always ready to get the talons out, because he’ll defend Gerard to his fucking grave. What Mikey sees is that Frank is apathetic at best about the whole gay thing, which is actually somewhat of a positive sign. Frank cares very little about there being an anonymous gay hockey player, and the fact that he doesn’t care means he’s not _bothered_ by it. That’s the key, after all. If Frank isn’t bothered, there’s a good chance he’d be accepting of Gerard if he ever so wished to come out. 

Mikey’s also quite aware of the fact that Gerard is in love with this boy. He may not say it out loud, but he fucking adores him. Gerard always smiles tellingly when he talks about Frank. He tries to talk about Frank in passing, he doesn’t go right out and say it, but he will refer to Frank, or compare things to Frank. He thinks he’s being casual. He thinks that if it’s in passing, Mikey won’t notice he’s doing it, because he doesn’t go right out and talk about Frank. The thing is though, there’s only so many times you can casually talk about someone and still have it be a coincidence. You can mention them every now and again. But then there’s Gerard, who can’t hold a conversation without talking about Frank in passing at least three times. It’s a little ridiculous. 

Frank and Mikey find seats near the middle of the room, and Ray appears shortly thereafter, his large head of hair unmistakable as he enters through the doorway. 

“You guys have read the thing, right?” Is Ray’s opening line when he takes the seat next to Frank.

“Yes!” Mikey says, “we were just talking about it.”

“Who do you think it is?” Ray asks.

“I don’t know,” Mikey shrugs, and when Ray turns to Frank for a guess he just shrugs. He doesn’t particularly want to engage in this conversation. He’s nervous he’ll give something away.

Frank looks around the room, as various other people start to make their way into the class, all freshmen. Frank sees that a girl, three rows in front of him, has the article open on her phone like everyone else seems to, and he takes a deep breath.

It’s starting to sink in that the article is gaining attention. It’s not going unnoticed, and there is a good chance it will not stay under the radar. The team all know about it by now, he’s sure, but it’s starting to seem like the whole school might too soon enough. 

Frank doesn’t feel like he’s made a huge mistake even though he feels like he should feel that way. It doesn’t seem to be much of a bad thing yet. Even if Ray and Mikey are being kind of annoying in their assumption that none of the three of them could be the gay guy, it’s still so far been a somewhat positive reaction. At least, so far, no one has said to him that he deserves to die. It’ll happen sooner or later, but right now he’s just glad that his teammates, the ones he considered friends, haven’t said it.

“I’ve got kind of an idea about who it is…” Ray says, drifting off purposefully, as if begging for them to ask him to spill his suspicion. He’s got that knowing glint in his eye, and for a moment, Frank panics, thinking that he might suspect the truth. 

Frank gets a little bit of a leaden feeling in his heart when Mikey says, “dude, who?”

“Well,” Ray says, and then look around, as if he’s wary of someone eavesdropping. Then he looks down to the front of the class as a familiar face enters the room. “Speak of the devil.”

Frank, confused, turns to look down to see Brendon walking into the class, and he makes a face. Does Ray actually suspect Brendon? Of all people? Brendon? He doesn’t seem to have much of a personality at all to Frank, other than kind of short-tempered. He’s indifferent to the guy, if he’s being totally honest. Brendon is lukewarm on him at best, he doesn’t seem to dislike Frank, but he doesn’t like him too much either. 

“What? Brendon?” Mikey asks, in a whisper, eyeing him as he takes a few steps up the stairs on one side of the lecture hall and then finds a seat near the front in the far-left corner, which as far as Frank can tell, is the seat furthest away from all other humans. 

Come to think of it, Frank can’t actually recall ever seeing Brendon hanging out with anybody. Brendon just sort of strays in and out of Frank’s peripheral, never really engaging with him or anybody else. He didn’t come to the afterparty the other day when everyone else did. Frank knows more about Mikey than he does about Brendon, and Frank can name the things that he actually knows about Mikey on one hand. Namely, Mikey is Gerard’s brother and he plays hockey. That is the extent of his knowledge about Mikey. 

“Yeah, dude,” Ray replies, “he’s just got that _way_ about him.”

“Way?” Frank asks, “what, you mean he shits rainbows?”

“No,” Ray says.

“Then I guess he’s probably just a person, isn’t he?” Frank says, and he doesn’t mean for it to come out so snippy but it does. 

“I’m not saying he isn’t, I just think that it’s probably him,” Ray says. “He’s always, so like, I don’t know, he’s the only guy who calls Morgan out when he’s being a dick to his face.”

“Oh, okay so he’s gay because he’s not an asshole,” Frank nods.

“Dude!” Ray says, “I just mean, oh whatever. I just think it’s Brendon.”

Mikey shrugs, “could be me. Maybe I ghostwrote it after I saw Pacific Rim.”

Ray makes a face, “why Pacific Rim?”

“Have you ever seen Idris Elba? Fuck if there ain’t a straight man alive who wouldn’t bend him the fuck over.”

Frank makes a nodding sort of gesture as Ray just shakes his head, obviously, his no homo complex is being tested and he doesn’t like it. At some point though he just shrugs and nods. 

The three of them are forced into silence when their professor comes in, the one that doesn’t seem to like Frank too much, though he hasn’t quite figured out why yet. He suspects it has something to do with Frank’s haircut, though what about it that the windbag doesn’t like, Frank hasn’t determined, but he’s the kind of vapid person who’d hate someone for their hair. 

Frank glances around the room a few times and he notices the school newspaper open on someone’s laptop, gets a strange sort of feeling in his stomach, and then ignores it. It doesn’t stop there, though.

Frank is walking out of the classroom a little while later, saying bye to Mikey and Ray who are off in a different direction as Frank makes his way towards the dining hall. Frank feels someone’s eyes on him as he’s exiting the building, and he locks eyes with another hockey player, Garret, Morgan’s roommate. He doesn’t look too happy about something and Frank does not need to wrack his brain to determine what that something is. 

Frank can’t help himself but to look at the phones of the people he passes, he’s just checking on instinct. Out of a few dozen people that he passes, at least a third or more of them are either reading the article, or he catches some sort of snippet of conversation about it. It’s quite peculiar. Frank isn’t totally aware of how many people know, quite yet, but it seems like it won’t take very long at all for this to spread.

The goal of the article might actually come to fruition. Other gay sports players, or just any gay people on campus, might actually read the article. They might actually feel less alone. Frank might actually be speaking to people, making a difference. 

Patrick was right about the article, he supposes. There are just somethings that you can’t help but to read. An article about a secret gay, that’s just something that sparks interest. It prompts conversation, itches to be spread and shared. It’ll catch on like a virus. It’s something that you can’t help but to be interested in or curious about. It’s got a layer of mystery as well as a layer of scandal. It’s not going to take long for this to be a schoolwide phenomenon, Frank can tell.

Frank ends up in the dining hall, grabbing food aimlessly, not particularly concerned in the goings on of the people around him, as he’s fairly sure he knows what most of their conversations are about. Everyone’s going to have something to pitch in about this article. If it weren’t a school article, it wouldn’t be this big. The fact that it is a school article, however, indicates that it’s something that the student body population is _supposed_ to get engaged with. 

Frank hears a snippet of conversation as he’s walking through the room about it, but he doesn’t invest himself in what the person is saying. He’s very nervous about listening in on too many people, because he’s sure he’ll hear negative things when people don’t know he’s listening. That’s half the point of the article, in all fairness, but it’s not going to happen overnight. He wants people to be more conscientious, be aware that not everyone around them is straight, but the article is still fresh in people’s minds, they’re going to have some more blunt things to say about it today of all days. 

Frank takes a seat, near the corner of the huge room, liking his privacy. He likes to sit next to walls, because people aren’t likely to walk behind him or past him when he’s against a wall. He always feels somewhat invaded when people walk past him too much, like his life is on display. 

“Hey, Patrick,” Frank says only a few minutes later, looking up at the man who sits down next to him with a very slack posture which leads him to believe that something is wrong. Frank looks at him, evaluates him for a moment, and sees that the look on his face is one of something very grim, so there is definitely something wrong. Frank looks around, but there’s no one sitting anywhere close to him, since it’s a little too early for the lunch rush, and way too late for it to be breakfast.

“Dude, what’s wrong?” Frank whispers, nervous that it has something to do with the article. Patrick’s name is attached to that piece even if Frank’s isn’t, so there’s definitely a chance that Patrick has received some backlash from the article, probably from the homophobes who want to make him feel like shit for acknowledging that gay people exist, which is a big no-no on the asshole front. 

“Nothing,” Patrick says in a voice that indicates that it is not nothing. Frank wrinkles his eyebrows together and becomes genuinely worried when he looks at Patrick’s face bent down over his tray of food, with something like agony etched across his every feature. 

“No, that’s definitely not true.”

“I…” Patrick stops when either a lack of air or too much air interrupts him, making him cough and then make a whining sound, and as Frank looks at him, he realizes that Patrick is about to fucking cry. Something definitely bigger than an asshole being an asshole has happened, and it makes Frank very nervous. He knows it must have something to do with the article, so whatever it is, he feels partially responsible. 

“Oh shit, man,” Frank says, “what happened?”

Patrick makes a face, and then puts his head in his hands. Frank can hear only very faintly, “Pete broke up with me.” He says it with a tone of voice that sounds like he’s given up all hope, or like he’s already broken.

Frank’s entire body immediately turns to stone at Patrick’s words. He doesn’t know if he’s even heard Patrick correctly because there’s no way that Pete, the guy who literally fawns over Patrick when he so much as breathes, could possibly have broken up with him. It’s just not possible. There’s no way that he could or would do that.

Except the look on Patrick’s face is definitely not one that could or _would_ ever be faked, which makes Frank believe that somehow, for some unearthly reason, he’s telling the truth. Pete broke up with him for some inconceivable reason.

“That’s not… no. No, why would he? How could he ever?” Frank asks, feeling aghast, and it feels a little bit like he’s been broken up with too. Frank’s never dated anyone, never had a boyfriend, or a girlfriend, or anyone, but he feels like the hollowness inside of him right now is what you would feel if you’d just been broken up with. 

Frank doesn’t know why yet, but he is sure that this is all his fault. It must have something to do with the article, how he’s not sure, but it’s his fault all the same. Frank feels like trash, feels like the scum of the earth, and if he’s correct, then he’s not incorrect in feeling as such. Pete and Patrick were made for each other, they were _made for each other_. If Frank is in anyway responsible for breaking them up, he’s going to fucking hate himself for the rest of his life. 

“He thought…” Patrick starts, makes a gasping sort of sound and then breathes in deeply before looking up, with an expression void of any emotion at all, like showing any feelings whatsoever will somehow make him fall apart. The little composure that he has left will all just tumble down. “He thought the article was about him.”

“He what?” Frank asks, confused.

“Thought I went ahead and did it without his consent,” Patrick says, his voice cold and so very broken, so much so that Frank feels a sharp twang of pain in his heart like someone poking at his insides with a stick or possibly a wrecking ball.

“Fuck,” Frank says, “but you _didn’t_.”

“No,” Patrick says, “but I promised you I wouldn’t tell him… I-I couldn’t break your trust.”

“Oh fuck that,” Frank says, standing up abruptly. “You just stay there, Patrick, I’m going to set him straight.”

“Frank you don’t have to-”

“Fuck yeah, I do,” Frank says, “there’s nothing that’s going to stop me from making this right, and right now, it’s my fucking fault, and I’m not going to let this happen if I can fix it.”

“Frank-” but that’s all Patrick gets out before Frank is rampaging off with a whole lot of determination in his fucking everything. It’s on his face, in his walk, it’s probably in his ears at this point.

Frank doesn’t waste any time, he texts Pete the second he steps out of the building. He instinctively heads towards Pete and Patrick’s dorm, because that is the most likely place to find him. If he’s not there, he could also be at the library working on that paper Patrick mentioned yesterday. 

Frank doesn’t wait for a reply though, he just heads in the direction of their dorm, and he doesn’t care if he’s wrong, because he will track Pete down to the ends of the fucking earth before he allows the guy to break up with the love of his fucking life over something Frank did. 

Frank’s a little bit incredulous of the fact that Patrick actually kept his secret after Pete literally broke up with him. If Frank loved anyone as much as those two love each other, he would have let the cat out of the bag the second he saw troubled waters. He’d feel shitty about it, sure, but he’d have his boyfriend there to make him not feel so bad about it. 

Patrick keeping his secret in these circumstances tells Frank a huge thing about the guy. He’s the most trustworthy guy on the planet. If Frank had any doubts about Patrick, they’re gone now. Patrick actually kept his promise to Frank even though doing so caused Pete to break up with him. Patrick might just be the best and truest friend he’s ever had, which is a surprise to him. He’d honestly thought that he’d been growing closest to Pete, but now that he reflects on it, he honestly can’t find a time when Patrick wasn’t there for him. Even though he’s only known the guy a few weeks, and they’ve had very few encounters compared to how much Frank sees Ray, Pete, and Gerard, it’s unreal how much closer he feels to Patrick. Patrick kept a promise that resulted in what might be the worst thing that’s ever happened. He’s a keeper.

Frank doesn’t receive a response from Pete, not even when he makes it to the dorm and storms into it, looking like a man on a mission. People get out of his way, though there’s not very many people lazing around in the hallways, but there’s enough for Frank to realize that he must look fucking scary, which is an accomplishment given that Frank is a hobbit.

Frank turns down Pete’s hallway, and he stops in front of Pete’s dorm room, hearing music coming from inside. Immediately, Frank can tell it’s one of those sad breakup playlists on Spotify which are both cliché and harrowing. He knocks on the door quite forcefully, and he doesn’t receive a response. He knocks again, but still nothing. Pete is ignoring him, both on his phone and while Frank is literally outside his door. 

Frank just rolls his eyes and opens the door, which is unlocked, not surprisingly, because Pete is very forgetful and he of course, would forget to actually lock the door while he was trying to hide away from the world. What a fucking idiot.

Frank steps in, sees a very large mass of blankets with some feet sticking out on the other end, and then huffs, as he closes the door behind him.

“Pete,” Frank says.

“Go away,” Pete replies, his voice muffled as it’s coming from somewhere underneath the sheets, though Frank couldn’t say where. His entire head is covered, the only piece of him showing are his feet.

“Pete,” Frank says again.

“I’m not in a very chatty mood, Frank,” Pete replies.

“Pete, I’ve got to tell you something.”

“Not now, I’m in mourning,” Pete replies.

“Not for long, you’re not,” Frank replies.

“My boyfriend, the love of my life, wrote an article about me in the school newspaper and didn’t even tell me. After I explicitly told him I didn’t want an article written about me. And they’re not even my words, it’s just fucking garbage. I’m a poet, and it’s garbage.”

Frank makes a face and rolls his eyes at the ceiling like he’s directly questioning God, as he grumbles, “well thanks.”

“I just want to stay in my blanket cocoon and be wallow in misery, okay? Just go away,” Pete responds. Still, Frank has yet to see his head. 

Frank groans, walks over to his computer and pauses the music so that he can actually hear himself think for a moment, though he’s so high on adrenaline that he doesn’t even feel the nerves from what he’s about to do. 

“Pete, just listen to me for a second,” Frank says.

“No!” Pete groans, and he finally pokes his head out of the blankets, emerging about a foot to the left of where Frank thought his head was. “Make Adele come back, I need her. She’s the only one who understands.”

“Pete, the article isn’t about you,” Frank says, with a tone of annoyance in his voice. He’s a little irked that Pete would jump to the conclusions that he did and make the rash decision to break up with Patrick. Like Patrick would ever betray a promise, and a promise with _Pete_ at that. 

Frank understands why Pete would assume literally anyone else might have made the article, pretending to be Pete. An article like that is going to be popular, or at least, it’s going to get attention, as evidenced already. But Patrick is the last person who would ever betray a promise, and if Pete said no, Pete should know better. He should know that Patrick would never do anything Pete asked him not to. 

So, Frank gets why Pete might think it’s about him, because Pete is the only gay hockey player that he’s aware of, but it’s a little baffling for Frank to think that he didn’t even consider that it could be about anyone else. Pete is so afraid and so far into the closet that he genuinely believed he was the only player on the team who could possibly be gay. He’s so scared, and feels so truly alone that he never considered the possibility that the article could be about another player on the team. 

“What?” Pete asks, looking confused.

“The article isn’t about you, Pete,” Frank says, taking a deep breath and then continuing. “It’s about me. I’m gay. I’m the one Patrick interviewed.”

“You-” Pete starts, but then his eyebrows scrunch together in a way that makes him look like a very confused dog. Frank’s sure that if he were Patrick, he would find Pete’s face to be irresistible. “What?”

“I’m gay, Pete,” Frank says, sighing slightly, a little miffed about having to say this, but he isn’t thinking twice about it, and he wouldn’t take it back. This is what he needs to do and he knows that. Patrick and Pete deserve each other, he can’t come between the two of them like this. “After I walked in on you two… I told Patrick. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but I told Patrick a few weeks ago, and I made him promise not to tell anybody, for any reason, not even you. I planed to tell you sooner, I did, but I just never got around to it, it’s hard, you know. And when Patrick asked about the article, I knew I wanted to do it. Patrick wanted you to have someone to feel close to, even if I didn’t tell you, and he wants other closeted people like us to have that too. He’s just looking out for you.”

“You’re…” Pete starts, then drifts off, looking at Frank like he’s a rare fossil, or like he’s just turned into a bear or something else ridiculous that could prompt an expression as incredulous as that. 

“Yeah, Pete,” Frank says, rolling his eyes a little bit, but it’s not like he doesn’t understand the emotions Pete is having right now, he experienced the very same ones a few weeks ago. 

“Gay?” Pete says, as if finishing his own sentence a minute too late.

“Yes,” Frank says, nodding now. He does understand completely what it’s like to not be able to compute that information, though. When he found out about Pete, he was amazed, astounded. He almost didn’t believe it himself. Going through those emotions is not easily done, or a light task to have to handle either.

“For real?” Pete asks, and Frank smiles at him, not in a pleased sort of way, just in a ‘wow, this guy is an idiot’ sort of way, but it’s a loving one nonetheless. 

“Pete, I’m so gay I struggle walking in a straight line,” Frank replies. 

Pete’s face goes from awe and astonishment to panicked in a matter of only seconds. It’s almost cartoonish, and Frank feels bad that he’s slightly amused by it. Not entirely though, Pete’s an idiot and a bit of a jackass, so he’s not going to feel too bad about making fun of him.

“So, you’re saying I broke up with Patrick for nothing?” Pete asks, looking like someone just stole his entire life savings from him. 

“Well, no, you broke up with Patrick for being the best friend of all fucking time,” Frank replies.

“Shit!” Pete shouts and then he’s shoving himself out of the bed, and Frank genuinely has only a second before Pete is running right past him, out through the door. He almost hits himself on the closed door when it doesn’t open fast enough for him. Frank sticks his head out the door to watch Pete running frantically down the hall like he’s being chased by a horror movie villain. He nearly bumps into a girl walking the other way, she makes a face and looks back at him, but Pete’s fucking gone before she has the chance to scold him. 

“Well, I guess there’s my work done for the day,” Frank says to himself. He leaves the room, closing the door behind him, and feeling a little proud of himself.

He’s sure that he and Pete are going to talk more about this later, sure that Pete wants to share all the things Frank does about how awful it is to be the gay guy on the hockey team. He’s kind of excited to have that conversation as well, because Pete is honestly the only other person he knows who will understand that the way that Frank does. 

Frank walks with somewhat of a hop in his step, very proud of himself for mending a relationship, and for finally telling Pete. It’s been like two weeks, Frank really had meant to tell him earlier. He wishes it had been under better circumstances, but still, Pete knows. That’s quite a feat for him. Frank has now not only doubled, or tripled, but quadrupled the people who know he’s gay in just under a month. He’d never told anyone before and now he’s told three of the closest people to him. 

Frank smiles to himself, walking down the hallway, lost in thought, when he feels something very hard, and very painful, jab into him on his side. He’s so surprised and caught off guard, that it takes him a few seconds to realize what’s even happened, he’s just aware of the pain in his side that’s already beginning to sting. It’s the kind of bump that stings for a while rather than being only immediately painful, sort of echoes in a way that shouldn’t make sense but does. Frank turns to see what the source of the feeling is, and he sees Morgan, with his stupidly intimidating eyebrows, smirking back at him. Like an actual justifiable fucking _smirk_. Frank doesn’t think he’s ever seen a real fucking smirk before, but that could go in a dictionary, because there’s no other word for it.

Frank keeps walking down the hall, not anxious to get the shit beaten out of him, because he’s sure Morgan’s that kind of guy, the kind of guy who’d actually beat you up if you piss him off. 

Frank just keeps walking, and lets his thoughts wonder off, back to the talk of the town that he’d momentarily forgotten about. The article is out there. The reactions he’s been seeing aren’t all in his head. Everyone on campus knows he’s here. They all know there is a gay hockey player. Frank is no longer in the shadows. But he’s also now got more of an opportunity to be accepted, because no one’s ever going to begin accepting him if he keeps his own existence a secret. 

Frank considers Morgan now, for a moment. The thought crosses his mind that Morgan is in a bit of a mood today. He does normally hit Frank when he walks by him, but he’s never hit him quite so roughly before, and this could be due to either the angle at which he was walking in, or the fact that the dude is fucking pissed off about something. What else is there to be pissed off about right now then the big news? He and Garret may have come together to talk shit earlier. Someone on Morgan’s very own team is gay, and Morgan, as he has evidenced, isn’t very much fond of that whole scene. You could say he hates gays, or you could just call him a piece of shit. Either works, and gets the point across. He’s probably totally cool with lesbians so long as they’re not wearing any clothes, but gay dudes? Nah mate. Morgan doesn’t want any of that shit. 

Frank doesn’t want to think about that right now, because there’s too many good things he could be focusing on. Pete knows, Pete’s going to go find Patrick and beg on his knees for Patrick to forgive him, and everything’s going to be fine. The article is out, the reactions have been surprised so far, but they haven’t been definitively bad, which is a good sign. The schools knows about it, that’s all Frank wanted from this. That’s all he still wants. He wants everyone at least in this school to feel like they have a place in society since he can’t quite touch the world. Not yet at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment!


	21. Fallout, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evil in your heart.

Frank doesn’t see Patrick or Pete all day. After he’d played matchmaker earlier, he didn’t have time to go and find the two of them to make sure everything was alright, but he’s assuming that everything is okay now. After the confusion between them which has now dispersed, there’s no good reason for why they would continue to be broken up, not when it’s clear they’re head over heels for each other.

He almost can’t fathom how it is that people don’t notice that about the two of them. Frank knows that he didn’t notice, but to be fair, he’d known the guys about three days when he first walked in on them, so it’s not really like he had much of a chance to form an opinion. It is quite obvious though.

Pete and Patrick are always staring at each other, and it’s not in a very “bro” sort of way, there’s definitely something _more_ than that there. Patrick laughs at Pete when he makes bad jokes, and if that’s not a sign of true love than Frank doesn’t know what is. If Pete can genuinely pull a laugh out of Patrick when he’s being the fucking idiot that he usually is, then there’s no possibility other than Patrick being in love with him to explain it away. Most people just feel uncomfortable and roll their eyes when Pete tries to be funny, anyone who doesn’t is something special. 

Frank’s got one class in the afternoon, but afterwards, his schedule is free until practice, which is to say that he’s got something like fifteen minutes to eat dinner. After being by himself for the majority of the day, Frank finally does see Pete and Patrick when he goes to the dining hall, and they’re sitting in separate chairs, but that’s about the most Frank can say about them. Their chairs are about five inches closer to each other than they really need to be, and the gap between them is only large enough for people not to notice that they’re practically on top of each other. It’s as close as two humans can possibly get without blatantly being a couple, and Frank just rolls his eyes. How is everyone so oblivious? 

Ray and Travie are sitting at the same table, talking about something or other, and not seeming to notice that Pete and Patrick are drooling over each other. Frank takes a seat closer to the unattached guys, because he knows he’ll be a third wheel in any conversation the two of them might have. It must be true love if the two of them live in the same room, and still want to be near each other. Frank sometimes feels like he’ll kill Ray just because he scarcely gets any time away from the guy. He actually really likes Ray, he’s genuinely a good friend, but honestly, there’s only so many hours in a day where you can be with a guy before you need your alone time. 

“Hey, Frank,” Travie says, when Frank takes the seat next to him. Travie looks the same as usual, beautiful and celestial, and blissfully unaware of how hard it is to look him straight in the eyes without melting. Frank’s not about to say that Gerard is more attractive than Travie, because it’d be a blatant lie. It’s just that Frank is in love with that fucking dork and even Adonis couldn’t distract him from that fact. Frank’s never going to get used to Travie’s face though, that’s for sure. 

To his surprise, Travie is not in the least bit interested in talking about the article. Even with Patrick sitting a few seats away from him, Travie doesn’t seem to care that much. Frank wonders if he’s even read it, but he strikes that thought away quickly when he remembers that he saw his professor reading the article barely half an hour ago. If the fucking teachers are reading, then it’s become mainstream. Frank’s secret is out, there’s no pulling things back from here. 

Travie, instead, talks about homework, hockey, whatever the conversation flows into, doesn’t once seem to be interested in the article. Ray is clearly itching to ask about it, he peers over at Patrick a couple of times, as if trying to find the right time to ask him about it, but he doesn’t bring it up since it’s clear that no one else seems to care.

Frank finds it kind of refreshing. Travie has always been a decent guy, so Frank isn’t surprised by the fact that he’s unfazed by the article. Unfazed is probably the best response he can hope for. Mikey had also been somewhat unfazed earlier, that could be chalked up to his personality, but Frank thinks otherwise. Mikey and Frank talked about the article some, but Mikey didn’t seem to mind the content of the article at all. Frank is hoping for more responses like that. He definitely wants to see the guys in the locker room lighten up on their insults, but any of them being apathetic about sharing a locker room with a gay guy is Frank’s ultimate fantasy. Well not really, Frank’s ultimate fantasy involves Gerard and a serious lacking of clothes, but Gerard related fantasies aside, it’s his dream.

Frank doesn’t have the time to take his time when eating. He barely has enough time as it is to cram the food on his plate into his mouth, or into his hands, before the other guys are telling him that they should start heading towards the rink. Frank kind of wishes he could be late, because he doesn’t want to sit through the tension that the locker room is sure to be, but he knows that he won’t be able to explain that away very easily. Being late will only draw more attention to him, and he’s likely to be getting a lot very soon. 

Frank spares Pete and Patrick a glance as they’re forced to part ways, Patrick not being very interested in watching their practice, thinking more in favor of the bed that’s waiting for him and the paper he needs to do research on. They have a quick goodbye, one that Frank is sure isn’t enough for either of them, but Pete has to let him go and then he goes back to walk in stride with Frank, whose just a few steps behind Ray and Travie.

“Glad to see everything is alright there,” Frank says.

“I was an idiot,” Pete replies.

“You aren’t going to see me arguing with you on that.”

“I’m really sorry that I jumped to conclusions earlier, Frank. It was never my intention to ridicule you or Patrick, never my intention to questions his character, either, I just, I didn’t believe anyone else could be in my situation. You know how it is, I jumped to conclusions. I’m very glad I was wrong, though, in more ways than one.”

“It’s alright, Pete,” Frank says, honestly. He’s not going to hold any long-term grudge against the guy. Pete jumped to the wrong conclusions, made some startlingly inaccurate assumptions. It happens. And with Frank as far in the closest as he is, he’s not surprised that Pete wouldn’t believe anyone else would be gay. It’s hard to believe anyone else could be when you’ve always been alone.

Sometimes, when he looks at the world around him, it is hard for Frank to embrace the fact that he’s gay. He so desperately wishes that he weren’t sometimes. It is damn fucking hard to be gay. Not like it’s not hard being a whole assortment of other things, but sometimes, Frank really wishes that being gay were actually a choice, because he’s certain he wouldn’t have chosen it. His life would be a whole lot easier if it was a choice. Frank’s particular situation does nothing if not perpetuate the fact that being gay _isn’t_ a choice, though. No one in Frank’s shoes would choose this. Or rather, no one in Frank’s skates. 

Frank doesn’t feel bad because he’s gay, though. He doesn’t have any shame about being gay, he doesn’t fear the wrath of God or perdition. That’s not his fear, none of those things are. If Frank lived in a different society, he would have no issues with himself whatsoever. It’s other people who make things hard on him. It sucks, because Frank knows it’s not his fault. Nothing about his sexuality is wrong, and he’s not wrong, but other people hate him for it anyway. That’s the reason being gay is hard, it’s not anything beyond that. _People_ scare Frank, not higher powers.

The locker room is uneasy when Frank steps into it. The tension is clear, and it’s stale. It’s not the kind of tension that you feel good about stepping into, but it’s unavoidable. Frank hums to himself, tries to distract himself from the fact that everyone is a little on edge, including himself. 

They all know about the article, if there was a shadow of a doubt before, it has dissipated now. 

Frank starts to get ready, peering around at the room around him every so often, worried that someone is going to jump out at him, or something else as ridiculous. 

Frank jumps at the sound of something slamming, caught by surprise despite how hyperaware he is. The sound is of metal hitting metal, and he turns to see Morgan and his cronies, standing in the entrance of the locker room. Morgan’s got his hand on the locker that he just slammed closed, and he’s got venom in his eyes. Frank feels a chill run through his heart, quite immediately, quite terrifyingly.

He turns to look over at Pete, who’s just as surprised as Frank had been, and he looks to have something equal to Frank’s fear. Frank analyzes a few other faces in the split second he has before Morgan’s cold voice fills the room, and it’s clear to see that he and Pete are not the only ones who fear Morgan’s words. Frank and Pete may or may not be the only gay guys on the team, but despite their minority, the looks on everyone’s faces express the fear of what is to come of the article, as if the article was about them. Only one person gave that interview, but everyone will feel the reverberations of it. 

Things are about to get a whole lot different. The dynamics between the players, on the ice, off it, and possibly even with other teams, are about to morph into something no one has seen before.

“If I find out which one of you…” Morgan starts, and then breathes in deeply, as if holding back something, holding back anger which is still clear in every inch of him. “You’ll wish you were dead. You’ll crave death.”

Morgan says it simply, in a way, _elegantly_ , putting a prim little bow on the threat. There isn’t a hint of hesitancy to his tone or his face; it’s his steady, almost sugary voice that makes the threat as horrific as it is. Frank can’t fathom how it is anyone can make a threat sound as terrifying as Morgan does. Frank could be standing in front of Lord Voldemort right now and not be as scared of him as he is of Morgan.

Morgan frightens him, and not just in the way that you’re frightened of your high school bully. Frank doesn’t worry that he’ll be shoved in a locker, or that he’ll be given a black eye, or even that he’ll end up with a broken rib. Frank fears that Morgan wouldn’t think twice before taking his hockey career away from him with ease, break every bone available to him to break, crush him into tiny little pieces that blow away in the wind, and leave him for dead, or worse. Frank doesn’t doubt that Morgan means business, because there’s a certain type of person you should always be afraid of. Someone who is still a bully, a full four years out of high school, is dangerous, because it’s certain to stick far longer than that. If it hasn’t worn off by now, it may never go away.

There is a darkness to Morgan. A shadow is cast over his heart, a black plague has creeped into his bones. He’s not just a bully, he is something so much scarier. Frank doesn’t know if it’s inappropriate to fear for his life or not, but he feels like he has no choice. 

He’s starting to regret the article. Yes, he may have touched a few people, given some people some hope, but what is any of it if he’s dead, or worse? What if Morgan does something terrible to him? Breaks his bones, does irreversible damage, what if he can never skate again? What if Morgan decides to do worse? He could expose Frank to the world, which might be just as dreadful. Sure, he won’t be in a wheelchair, or on crutches, but what if he can never step foot out of his house again without being a laughing stock? Frank would rather have irreversible damage than be shamed away from the ice. 

Frank doesn’t know what the right choice is now. He doesn’t know if he’s made any good decisions, or what the consequences of the ones he’s made are going to be. He just knows that right now he is very scared, and it’s his own fault that he feels this way. 

Frank turns his attention away from Morgan, though pulling his gaze away is hard, because he craves the pain, to some extent. His heart and mind tell him no, but he’s so curious, so interested in seeing what Morgan does. He’s infatuated with the idea of destruction, and yet fearful beyond compare of it at the same time. 

Everything that happens now is Frank’s fault, and that’s something he doesn’t want to accept, but he knows it to be true. If Morgan does something rash, hurts him, or someone else, it’ll be on him. Knowing Patrick, he’s sure to feel the same weight that Frank will feel, and Frank can’t say that he won’t be willing to share it. Sure, Frank gave the interview, but Patrick published it. He knows that’s cruel and selfish of him to say, but Frank isn’t perfect, and has never pretended to be. He knows there is evil in his heart.

Frank tries his best to calm his breathing, but he can feel Morgan’s wolf-like glare at his back. He turns to see Morgan looking not at him, but at Ray. Then Morgan switches quickly to dig into Brendon, then Mikey, then Frank again, or possibly for a first time. Frank and Morgan lock eyes and Frank swears that he sees red in them. He sees actual, bright red flames in his eyes. He knows he’s imagining it, but it’s mortifying, so he turns away quickly, trying to focus on what he’s supposed to be doing. He’s supposed to be changing, getting ready to go out there on the ice and do his favorite thing in the world, but right now, it doesn’t seem very enticing. It seems like a burden.

Frank never imagined that he would feel this way when he did that article. He never imagined that he would fear to play hockey, but right now he does. He’s worried Morgan will hurt him on the ice, and if not him, someone he cares about. It’s not just Morgan he has to be afraid of, which only doubles, and even tripled his fear. 

Frank tries to swallow, but there’s something very large and very painful caught in his throat, which he tries to get down, but it’s not even there. He partially knows that, but still, it feels like a rock got stuck in his throat, and it makes breathing slightly more difficult. 

Through the doorway appears Frank’s favorite face in the entire world, and he’s got something like determination and a little bit of anger in his eyes. Frank’s stomach does a summersault, because it hadn’t occurred to him yet that he doesn’t know what Gerard’s reaction to the article is. He doesn’t know how on earth Gerard feels about it.

Frank would love to say he’s sure Gerard won’t be bothered by it, would love to say that Gerard might even admire the bravery of whoever the gay hockey player is, but he can’t say either of those things with true confidence. The fact is that he doesn’t know how Gerard’s going to react, but he’s sure he’s about to find out. 

Clearing his throat, Gerard begins, “Alright, so I’m aware of certain… news that has been released recently.” His voice fills the locker room, with a tone of authority that Frank is not used to hearing from him. Sometimes Frank is caught off guard by the fact that Gerard is a superior, technically he’s even _in charge_ , that he is someone who is ranked far higher than Frank. Gerard does not seem that way, doesn’t even have the capacity to act that way most of the time. Frank looks up to him though, which makes it quite clear that he is someone of importance. Right now, for a very brief moment that is sure to subside, Gerard does look like important, he looks official.

“I just want everyone to know that this changes nothing about anything. I don’t want any of you trying to demean your teammates, or acting like anything has changed, because nothing has. Your teammates are still your teammates, no matter what, and I expect you to act that way. Anyone who has any problems with that may hand in their jersey now. Anyone who threatens another teammate will be dealt with rashly. This team is going to move forward from this point, not backward. I’d hate to see any of you leave the team over something as inconsequential as this, but don’t think for a second that your hate is more important than this team. If you have any questions, eat them, because this isn’t up for debate.”

Frank smiles a little but he puts his head down to hide it. He’s never loved Gerard so fucking much. It takes everything in the world for him not to walk over there and push the boy against the wall, kiss the shit out of him. He would love nothing more, in fairness, but he can’t do that. 

Gerard is something very special to Frank, and he wishes that he had the words to describe it. Even though they’re not dating, it’s clear that Gerard isn’t just a friend to him. They are something more, something very much stronger than friends. Frank wonders if Gerard senses that too, but he doubts it. Frank may be making it up in his head, and that possibility shouldn’t be thrown out, but he thinks that it is something mutual. 

“Why are you allowing it?” Morgan asks, spits at him, with his comic book villain sneer. “What makes _them_ more important than the rest of us, huh?”

“The fact that this is a fucking team, Fahey. And beyond that, the fact that we’re all human beings. Your lack of a sense of decency never fails to amaze me, Fahey. You need to embrace the fact that we are a team, all of whom are different to each other in our own ways. Not everyone is like you, grow up and get your head out of the clouds. Well, I say clouds. The dirt, more realistically,” Gerard snarls, and Frank grins a little bit. He does so love Gerard’s hate for Morgan. Frank also feels a bit like a concerned bystander watching a mother scold a child, because when Gerard starts surnaming him that’s how you know shit’s gotten serious. 

Gerard is not a threatening or intimidating person once you get to know him. At first, he scared Frank a little because Gerard’s an assistant coach which makes him a superior, but once that illusion was shattered, it’s hard to reclaim it. In this moment though, Frank can actually feel the fear of some of the guys, because Gerard’s rarely ever this serious, so when he pulls that façade out, it’s startling. 

“Why should I listen to you?” Morgan snaps, clearly not affected in the least by Gerard’s authority. 

“You will do well to listen to me, Morgan. Do not give me yet another reason to edge you off of this team, because I am oh so close, and one more thing from you, it’s the final straw. I have put up with your shit for years, okay? And I’m sick of it. Grow up, you’re on a team, everyone around you wants the same things you do. Gay or not, we’re here to win, and if you stand in my- _our_ way, I will not hesitate to choke the weed that you are. This is a team of diverse individuals, accept it or leave.”

Gerard, ever the drama queen, turns and makes his exit because he’s just too proud of his line, and thinks it deserves a dramatic exit. At least he’s not pursued by a bear. 

Frank shakes his head at Morgan, wonders why on earth it is that he would even need to question his assistant coach. Yeah, he’s only the _assistant_ coach, but he’s one step away from Coach herself.

There is definitely some sort of history between Gerard and Morgan and it is one full of animosity. Morgan, and some of the other senior players are the only ones who will remember Gerard when he actually played hockey. At the time, Gerard would have been a year older than Morgan, and he probably would’ve been a hell of a lot better than Morgan as well. Frank’s never seen Gerard play, but that’s his assumption given Gerard’s personality and face. If he’s got a face that great, and a personality that is somehow better, than of course, God’s going to rub it in Frank’s fucking face by making him the best hockey player since Gretzky. Because that’s just always how it fucking is. 

Frank wonders what the team was like back then, when Gerard and Morgan played alongside each other. He can’t imagine that they’d have gotten along any better than Morgan and himself. Gerard just might be the only person on the planet whose hate for Morgan parallels Franks, possibly eclipses it. Actually, now that Frank thinks about it, Gerard easily hates Morgan more than Frank does. Frank fears him more, though. Gerard’s got somewhat of a safety net, being a coach, Frank’s just a teammate to Morgan.

According to multiple sources, Gerard has tried to get Morgan kicked off the team somewhere upwards of twelve times. He’s come up with just about every excuse he can think of, but it seems like Morgan is untouchable. There are many reasons for why this is so. First, Morgan is a damn good player. Second, Morgan is rich as fuck, which is a discover that Frank has made only recently, but it suits every image he’s had of the guy. He can probably have his daddy bribe the school to let him get away with just about anything, as evidenced by the fact that he is in his senior year of college and hasn’t been kicked out due to poor grades yet. Lastly, Morgan is scary, and Frank’s pretty sure that even Coach is wary of him. 

Gerard can threaten Morgan all he wants, and unfortunate as it is, unless Morgan up and kills someone on the team, he’s probably not going to get kicked off. This is a realization that forces a knife through his already battered heart. 

Frank just sighs and tells himself that he only has to put up with Morgan for one year. Just the rest of the year, and then he’ll be gone, graduated, off to do more villainous things somewhere else, hopefully not in the NHL, but it wouldn’t surprise Frank. Those poor bastards who will have to work with him later on, though.

But Frank is selfish, and he doesn’t care about them. He can’t wait until Morgan is out of his life, because it’s his life that he cares the most about. He also cares quite a bit about Gerard’s life but that’s mainly because he wants their lives to intertwine. 

“Yeah right,” Morgan says once he’s sure Gerard’s gone, in the sort of whisper that’s meant to be heard by everyone.

“What’s your fucking problem, man?” Brendon snaps, and no one in the room, including Morgan, expects it. Frank’s head jumps up at the sound to look at Brendon who’s standing there, with no fucking fear in his eyes, glaring at the scariest human Frank has ever seen. Frank couldn’t even imagine a scarier person, he could be from Silent Hill and no one would be any the wiser. He’s just a terrifying human being who makes Frank’s skin crawl at the very thought of his existence.

“My problem?” Morgan asks, and he drops the shirt in his hand, pacing across the room over to Brendon very slowly, and it’s like the earth slows to dramatize his every footfall. Frank’s blood runs cold, scared of what Brendon is getting himself into. He doesn’t even know the guy and yet Frank feels as though he’s in Brendon’s shoes right now. He can practically feel the glaring of Morgan’s eyes on him as he approaches Brendon.

Frank’s going to literally witness a fucking murder and he won’t be able to do anything about it. 

“You’re my problem,” Morgan says, then pushes Brendon back, towards the wall, not really enough to hurt him, just enough to instill fear in him, “Fag.”

Frank flinches at the word, because it feels like a wound. It feels like a sword, or an ax. For some reason, it hits him just above his spine, where neck meets back. He couldn’t say why, because it’s not directed at him, but it feels like Morgan is speaking right to him. Probably because Frank’s fully aware that the hate behind the word is directed at him, even if Morgan isn’t aware of it. That word is why he gave Patrick that interview, so he wouldn’t have to hear it any longer. In Morgan’s case, the interview may only strengthen the word in Morgan’s repertoire. 

“The article isn’t about me,” Brendon says, whispers, and even though his face refuses to show it, Frank can tell he’s scared. He’s starting to doubt his original confidence, and he’s right to do so. He’s practically shitting his pants with Morgan’s attention focused solely on him. Frank doesn’t blame him, it’s easy to be confident to begin with, but that confidence fades very quickly once you see what you’re up against. Brendon is lanky, and not particularly muscly either. He’s not quite as thin and willowy as Mikey is, but Brendon could still be snapped in half by Morgan. 

“I had a suspicion it was you the second I read that article,” Morgan says, and Frank can hear the silence like a swarm of bees buzzing around the room. 

“It’s not,” Brendon says, his voice on the cusp of breaking.

“I don’t believe you,” Morgan says, looking down at Brendon, even though there’s barely an inch in height difference between them. Frank wants to turn away, wants to stand between them, pull them apart, wants to run away altogether. He can’t tear his eyes away from the drama unfolding though, and it pains him to know that he’s just _watching_. 

It’s always Brendon that stands up to Morgan, and Frank doesn’t know if he’s got some sort of death wish or if he’s simply got no filter, but it’s starting to worry him. Brendon is going end up with his body in pieces in a dumpster, and Morgan will probably get away with murder because he’s rich, and also white. 

“Back off, Morgan,” Pete says, interrupting what feels like a movie scene. Frank is hit with the reality that he’s in this scene, himself. Hit with the fact that the people around him are real, he’s not watching a screen. He has the ability to interact with the people and things around him, and yet it’s like someone has removed him from this world and made him nothing more than an onlooker. 

Morgan turns his gaze quickly to Pete, and Pete is probably the only person in the room who he’d actually consider listening to. Morgan purses his lips, his face becoming snakelike in the process, but he relents, stepping back and turning to walk back across the room. He leaves Brendon standing in the wake of him, looking very small, like a child whose lost his parents in a supermarket. 

Pete deserves a fucking ribbon, because he just prevented a murder. Frank thanks his lucky stars that Pete’s the captain, because if Morgan had somehow won the spot of captain, then everything would have already blown up.

Frank wonders why it is that everyone believes the article is about Brendon. First Ray, now Morgan. It occurs to Frank that he himself might be assuming things that aren’t true. It’s entirely possible that Brendon actually is gay, and that would explain why he’s so defensive about the article. That, or it could be because Brendon’s just not a douchebag. Sticking up to Morgan is a hard thing to do, and Brendon is the only person who Frank has ever seen do it. Pete doesn’t really count, because he’s never called Morgan out on his behavior, but Frank’s witnessed Brendon do it about three times now. 

There’s only a few reasons for why Brendon would stand up against Morgan, stupidity being near the top of that list. Still, Frank can’t help but to wonder if the reason Brendon is so defensive about it is because he empathizes with the article. 

Of the guys on the team, Brendon being gay would probably surprise him the least. Mikey is somewhere as a close second, because Mikey doesn’t seem too dictated by rules of life, he’d probably just go with the flow in most scenarios if it suited him. Mikey’s not the “no homo” kind of guy he’s the “I’ll try anything once” kind of guy.

Frank feels a wash of guilt when he remembers that the article is about him. If Brendon gets shit for it, that is on Frank. If Brendon winds up with a black eye or a broken arm tomorrow, Frank will be at fault. It will be entirely his burden to bear, and he knows he’d be obligated to tell Brendon that. Because if Morgan were to break Brendon’s arm thinking that the article is about him when it’s actually about Frank, there’s no way that Frank should let that slide without saying something about it. He doesn’t want this to become a witch hunt, though now that he looks around the locker room, he can see that it already has. 

That’s what he should do. Frank should tell Brendon right now, since it’s clear that he’s the first target on Morgan’s list. He should pull Brendon aside after practice and lay it all down. If Brendon gets injured, than he definitely should.

But the thing is, Frank doesn’t think he’d be able to. Frank is selfish, he’ll never deny that. Frank cares more about himself than Brendon. If Brendon gets the blame pinned on him, Frank might let it slide. He likely won’t speak up. Frank knows it makes him a terrible person, but he could use a scapegoat, and Brendon might just turn out to be an ideal one. 

Frank knows that these thoughts make him a terrible person, but he can’t deny it to himself that they’re true. He cares more about his own hockey career than almost anything else. Frank loves hockey, he needs, and breathes it. Brendon could never love it the way Frank does, he tells himself. He tries to rationalize it, tries to convince himself that hockey means more to him than it could possibly mean to anyone else. He knows it’s not true, and it’s not okay to think those things.

Morgan and Ray aren’t the only ones who have formed guesses, he’s sure. Frank and Pete are the only ones on the team who _haven’t_ made any guesses. Though Mikey didn’t say it, there’s a good chance he’s got an idea or two. Frank wonders if anyone, or how many, might suspect him. Frank doesn’t think that he stands out, and he doesn’t like to think that he acts in a stereotypically gay way, but that doesn’t mean that he’s right about that. He’s never seen himself from other people’s eyes, which makes him wonder if there’s something about him that he doesn’t notice but that other people might catch on. 

There are some guys on the team who are going to have larger targets on their back, namely, all of the freshman, because they’re the fresh blood that none of the team know as well. There’s more uncertainty about them than there is about anyone else. Then there’s some of the older boys, the ones Frank doesn’t know particularly well but could have certain nuances to them which others might pick up and feed on. Everyone’s got something about them that could be construed as gay. One of the defenseman wears too many scarves when it’s not cold out, another wears too many V-necks. Hell, this is a locker room full of highly judgmental boys, if your eyelashes are too long they might suspect you. 

Frank takes a deep breath, pulling the last of his gear on, and he takes a good look around the room. Brendon may be first up on the chopping block, but with time, he’s sure they’ll move onto someone else. Frank hopes that’s the case, because then he might be able to live with himself. He just hopes that they move onto other people once they inevitably turn on him. 

Frank suspects the next person might be him. After Brendon, Frank is probably the most out in the open. Mikey might be on some people’s radar but being the brother of the assistant coach has its advantages, especially with how defensive of each other those two are. No, Mikey should be safe, Frank decides. With time, probably not very much, Frank is sure to become the next target. He just hopes he’s able to avoid coming under fire when his time comes, though.

Meanwhile, Gerard sits near the front of the stadium seating in the ice rink, a few heavy folders littering the seats next to him. He glares angrily down at the ice in front of him, which is still empty because the boys are changing. He wants to be in the locker room, keeping an eye out just in case Morgan decides to be, well, _Morgan_ , but at the same time, Gerard struggles to be in the locker room for any reason at all. He always feels guilty being in there, as if he’s taking advantage of the boys even though he’s not looking at them. If they knew, they’d be so entirely disgusted with him. He doesn’t look at them, he never has since he quit the team, but they won’t know that. Even if they don’t know he’s gay, Gerard feels wrong.

Gerard is having a hell of a fucking week and it is only Monday. Gerard’s feeling very deep emotions about this article, extremely familiar ones which make him grieve a little bit. It feels like he’s in college all over again.

Gerard was a damn good hockey player. He wasn’t the best, not even a little bit, but he was fucking great. He was invaluable to the team, there was a noticeable difference in goals after he quit the team. When Gerard was on the team, it didn’t feel like he saved all that many shots, didn’t feel like he was really contributing at all, but once he left, they started getting scored on more, by an average of about one more goal per game. _Per game_. One goal may not seem like a lot, but when you can scarcely get a goal for your own team, and have another team scoring several plus one extra nearly every game, it starts to add up.

Never once did he ever consider rejoining the team, though. He couldn’t face that. Gerard knew from the minute he stepped foot into this school that his hockey career wouldn’t last. It laid dormant for a while, but it was something he knew. By the time Sophomore year came to a close, it just all came tumbling down at once.

He connects with the article in a very fundamental and emotional way, because it might as well be about him. He was the gay hockey player who felt victimized at every turn, he was the one who felt alone, as if the world was made up of only white walls that were closing in on him, inch by inch, taking all the oxygen with them. He was the one who felt incomplete, who felt guilty, who felt angry, who felt sad, who felt lonely, who felt empty. Gerard was that guy. Whoever the article is about, they understand everything that Gerard went through. 

Gerard just wishes he could help them. He wishes he could find the hockey player and just tell him that it’ll be alright, though coming from Gerard it would sound hypocritical. How can he say that everything will be alright when he’s the one who quit hockey out of fear? Everything isn’t alright, he’s not deeply unhappy about his job or anything, because he does, past the surface, love it, but he could’ve brought this team so far on his shoulders and he gave up two years that he could’ve spent skating them into victory. Gerard’s not saying that they would have won, but a few extra goals here and there, maybe they could’ve pulled themselves out of being a laughing stock. Gerard’s a hypocrite if he says things are going to be alright when he was too chicken to see it through.

Then again, Frank’s slowly on his way to giving the team back what Gerard took away from it. 

Gerard had spent all of yesterday freaking out over what he saw on Saturday. He saw Frank _figure skating_. He saw the man of his fucking dreams doing the very thing that could make his life dangerous. Gerard doesn’t like figure skating, he never has, but he wouldn’t say that he hates Frank because he’s a figure skater. With time, and probably not that much, he thinks he might even come to enjoy it if Frank’s the one who’s skating. He’s steadily getting over the roadblock of his initial feeling about figure skating, thanks to Frank, but that doesn’t mean he’s okay with it.

At this point, Gerard doesn’t think he even cares that Frank figure skates, that’s not what makes him angry and torn up over it. It’s not the act itself. Figure skating is stupid, and he hates it, but it’s nothing that he can’t push past. It’s just that, a male figure skater? On a hockey team? Frank could have the shit kicked out of him just for existing. If anyone found out, Frank would be cast out of hockey with a snap of the fingers. Frank’s secret is not one to be taken lightly. Frank will risk his entire career if people were to find out. 

Gerard doesn’t know what Frank could possibly be thinking. There’s no way figure skating could be important enough to risk his hockey career. It’s stupid, idiotic, to even continue to practice. Frank’s entire reputation and career will be on the line if anyone finds out. As it is, he’s been careless. Gerard knows, and that’s about a hundred times too many people that _should_ know. Frank is just lucky it was Gerard who walked in on him and not someone else.

What makes things worse is this article. Frank being a figure skater at the same time that this article comes out means that if anyone does find out about his secret, he won’t just be forced off the team. He might be gravely endangered. Because Frank won’t just be outed as a figure skater if someone finds out, everyone will make the assumption, without a second thought, that Frank is the gay hockey player as well. Boys don’t figure skate, to do so is a signal that you’re gay, or at least, that’s how everyone will see this. It will spread like a wildfire, and Frank won’t be given the luxury of a fair trial.

Gerard’s not sold on the idea that figure skating inherently makes him gay. This discovery doesn’t affect much of anything about his own suspicions of Frank, or lack thereof. Gerard doesn’t believe that he _must_ be the gay player just because of the figure skating, though he’s likely the only person who will think that way. 

The only emotion that Gerard feels more than empathy about this whole situation is fear for Frank. Frank has the most riding on this article, and he’s also got the most to keep hidden. Gerard doesn’t know if he’ll be able to forgive Frank for endangering himself like this. He is risking more than just his career, and he should know that.

Gerard is a hopeless dreamer and he’s not the first to admit it, but when he read the article this morning, a certain spark was lit inside him. There’s hope. Something like hope, at least. He knows it’s delusional to think it, but the article could be about Frank. Frank might be gay. And if Frank is gay, then maybe he likes Gerard. However, even if those two entirely improbable things did happen to be true, he would have no way of knowing. 

If the article is about Frank, though, that makes Frank’s life a whole hell of a lot worse. Frank is a good hockey player, far better than Gerard could ever hoped to have been. He’s like lightning and a storm all at once, and he is completely unstoppable on the ice. Frank is going to make something huge of his life, whether he knows it now or not. But if Frank is gay, that would put a monolithic obstacle in his path. That’s not to say that he can’t get around it, but it will make things much harder. With the added tyranny of Morgan, the shadow over Frank’s life would get ever more ominous, because there’s no one worse to have on the team than Morgan for whoever the gay player is, whether it’s Frank or not.

Morgan is a huge problem. He’s one that Gerard has tried to get rid of on countless occasions, he’s lost track of just how many times it actually has been. He went to coach the very first month of Morgan’s first year on the team, asked her if she might want to reconsider him, as Gerard had witnessed another freshman being pushed around in the locker room on multiple occasions. Eventually, that guy quit the team, leaving Morgan’s reign of terror to fall on new victims. Gerard was one of those victims for a little while. It might even have subconsciously contributed to why he quit the team. 

There were a lot of things that contributed to his departure. He wasn’t getting out of it what he wanted, or so he told everyone that asked. But really, he just felt wrong, and unwanted. He felt his skin crawl every time he was in that locker room. He knew that the other people on his team would hate him if they knew he was gay, and he felt like the weight of the world would come crashing down on him if they did. He also just felt sleazy, because back then, he didn’t have as strict a hold on his own hormones. There were parts of him that were the very thing the other guys would fear. He was attracted to his teammates. He didn’t try to be, and he did try his best to look away from them, but it wasn’t always something he could avoid, given that he was constantly surrounded by two dozen half naked men. 

Gerard watches as some of the guys start piling their way onto the rink, first Ray, then Pete, and Frank not long after. He has to hand it to Frank for managing to look fucking gorgeous even from a hundred yards away in hockey gear. What he wouldn’t give for the gay hockey player to be Frank. 

There’s a higher probability that Frank is gay then there was yesterday, at least. There’s a one in sixteen chance. One in fifteen, actually, because there’s no way in the world Mikey would do an article like that without telling Gerard first. That’s not to say Mikey definitely isn’t gay, because Mikey is an elusive and slippery phenomenon the likes of which the world has never experienced before, it’s just that, Mikey and Gerard don’t keep secrets. Mikey would tell Gerard if he so much as thought he might be gay. Gerard also decides to discount Pete because he simply doesn’t have a way with words like that article displayed. Morgan, and his goon, Garret are also out. That leaves Gerard with twelve options. A one in twelve chance that the love of his life is gay. 

 

Gerard might just think it because he’s a dreamer, but he thinks that Frank is on the short list of the more likely players. There are a lot of assholes on the team, and while Gerard wouldn’t exclude them entirely, he wouldn’t say it’s very likely for any of them to be gay. If they were, he doubts that they’d do an interview about it. Especially not an interview that propagates hope. Realistically, Gerard can only really see about seven or eight of the guys on the team as likely options, but he’s not willing to narrow it down that far. He knows he’ll get his hopes up if he does. He can’t fall into any pattern of thinking Frank might be gay, because it’ll only hurt more when he has to face the fact that he isn’t. 

If you add in the figure skating, he supposes that narrows the field even further. If anyone else were to look at the facts as presented to Gerard, the conclusion would be clear. Frank must be the one. He must be the player the article is about. But Gerard isn’t so certain. 

Gerard looks at Frank, skating a few laps around the rink, wishing that he could be as carefree as Frank is. He wishes that he could have the simplicity and fun of being on the team, of not worrying about who he’s attracted to. Gerard wishes more than that that he could just _have_ Frank. That he could just hold him close and protect him, keep him there forever and never let him go. 

“Fuck,” Gerard whispers to himself, putting his head against the seat in front of him as he realizes how far he’s spiraling out of control. This is starting to get worse, his heart is starting to physically pain every time he sees Frank. This is how people feel when they’re dating someone and realize they’re in love. This is an _intense_ feeling. It’s not something that a guy who’s got an unrequited crush is supposed to feel. You build up to this for months and even then, you’ve got the person who you feel this way for. 

Gerard is in some deep shit. And he's not the only one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment, and also I love you for reading!


	22. Two Steps Forward and Three Steps Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the walls kept tumbling down.

So far, it has been the slowest and hardest week of Frank’s life, and it is only Wednesday. Monday, the day the article had been released, had taken an eon. Tuesday, somehow, took even longer. No one could even speak in the locker room yesterday, the tension was just that thick. 

Brendon still remains intact, but Frank isn’t sure for how much longer that will remain to be true. Brendon doesn’t have many friends, so he goes most places alone, which puts him in precarious position, because he’s got about four guys, one being Morgan, out for his blood. Frank had tried to lowkey stalk him yesterday, just to make sure he didn’t get beaten to a pulp, but he only managed to keep his eyes on him near the beginning of the day, and then lost him completely until practice that night. He’s still breathing, though, and that’s what matters, but Frank is worried for his safety. 

Wednesday begins much the same as any other day, with him and Ray throwing things at each other and trying to wake up despite the fact that neither of them wants to. 

Eventually, Frank does pull himself out of bed, ready to face a day that takes the same number of millennia as yesterday and the day prior had. 

The article is completely on fire right now, everyone knows about it, everyone’s talking about it, people are starting to bother Patrick about it, it’s getting crazy. Frank had some hope that it might blow over by Tuesday, but it had only become all the more enormous. Things are getting heated very quickly, and Frank fucking hates it.

Frank is almost entirely sure that he shouldn’t have done the article at this point. He’s pretty sure it was a huge mistake. Patrick is starting to think so as well, they’ve exchanged a few pained expressions, that translate the same idea. “Fuck.” 

At least Frank is in the clear right now, however that is the most that he can say. No one has really pointed their finger at him yet, he’s gotten a few sideways glances, but he doesn’t think that that’s out of normal. People don’t seem to really trust Frank or his group of friends that much, mainly because they’re the youngest guys on the team, and that makes them the shiftiest. 

Gerard hasn’t spoken a single word to Frank since Saturday. Frank doesn’t know why. It seems like he’s avoiding him. Frank saw him walking into the ice rink the other day before breakfast, and he called out to the guy, but Gerard either didn’t hear him or ignored him. Before and after practice, Gerard said no words to him. He didn’t even really talk to Frank during practice, he had few comments, good or bad, to say about his performance. Frank is starting to think that there is a trend going on, and it’s really bothering him, but he doesn’t know what might be causing it. 

He tries to assure himself that it’s just because Gerard is busy, that it’s because they have a game on Friday and he’s focused on that rather than on actively ignoring Frank, but he doesn’t know what the truth is anymore. 

Maybe Gerard suspects Frank’s the gay player, and that really bothers him. Despite that speech he made on Monday, it is possible that Gerard is more bothered by it than he let on. Maybe he’s a hypocrite who expects everyone to be respectful of their teammates but doesn’t abide by that rule himself. Or maybe Morgan has scared him off in some way. 

Frank doesn’t know, all he does know is that his life is seriously lacking in Gerard and it’s really getting to him. He feels quite a bit lonelier than he has in a long time, since about the time he got to this school probably.

At the very thought, someone starts yelling his name from behind him as Frank walks through the chilly October air.

“Frank Iero!” Pete shouts, excitedly, as he runs up to Frank as he makes his way towards the dining hall for breakfast. 

“That is my name,” Frank says, nodding in confirmation as Pete grabs his shoulder heavily to get him to slow down so that they can walk together. 

“What are you doing this Saturday, after practice?” Pete asks. Frank thinks ahead to that date, realizing that their game this week is on Friday, and not Saturday, which means they’ll have a practice as usual. If they win, there’s a chance they’ll get to skip it, but if they lose, it’ll probably go longer. Then he remembers that this Saturday will be Halloween, so he’s starting to suspect that he knows what Pete is about to say.

“Halloween, you mean?” Frank asks.

“Yes!” Pete responds, “best day of the year after my birthday and Christmas.”

“Well, let’s see, on Saturday, pretty sure my plan was to wallow away in my room with the fear from my looming death,” Frank says.

“That is… grim as shit, buddy,” Pete says. “I get Halloween is about the macabre, but that’s a little overkill.”

“I’m going to be turning nineteen that day, and I’m pretty sure that the way my life is going right now means that I am cascading towards an existential crisis about my own mortality around that time.”

“Wait, stop,” Pete says, and then as if to express his excitement about what Frank just said, he actually physically stops. “Did you just say your birthday is on Saturday?”

“Yeah,” Frank nods.

“On Halloween?”

“Every year,” Frank nods.

“Fucking hell!” Pete says ecstatically, catching a few peoples attention. “That’s the coolest fucking birthday ever! Oh my shit, well now you have to come to the Halloween party in my dorm, and we’ll get you a cake, and I’ll buy you all the candy you want, or, fuck, hey, we could go trick or treating. I don’t give a shit, you’re short enough to pass as an eight-year-old, we could hit the town, paint it red, ideally with blood, because, you know it’s Halloween, how cool would that be? Or, oh my god, we could ditch the party altogether and have a night out on the town, because you’re getting old, and we need to celebrate before your bones begin to wither, oh my gosh, I’m texting Patrick. Change in plans, this young fella is gonna take on the fucking world!” 

Pete has this superhuman ability to not need to breathe when he starts talking, which is the worst superpower that Pete could have, because the guy doesn’t fucking shut up. Like ever. The fact that he doesn’t need to breathe means that everyone around him is in a constant state of bewilderment and annoyance, because Pete doesn’t have a filter, he literally just says what he thinks, and often it’s not tangible, or logical, it just sort of spews out of him like a sprinkler. Pete’s personality is when you shake up a can of soda and then open it. 

“Pete, I haven’t even said if I want to do anything,” Frank chides, as they step into the dining hall.

“Of course you want to! It’s your birthday!” Pete exclaims. “And it’s Halloween!” 

“I don’t know what I want to do though,” Frank says. “Probably just hang out, not like with that many people either. I’m used to it, it happens every year, we can just chill.”

“Well, party or hit the town, it’s up to you, but I mean, think of all the mischief we can get up to? Oh man, oh boy, I’ve made the decision for you, we’re taking you out, and don’t worry, I’ll still buy you a Costco size variety bag of candy, my gift to you, on your special day.”

“I never asked for a Costco size variety bag of candy?” Frank says, not sure that that even sounds appealing. He likes candy as much as the next guy, but really, no human has the ability to eat that much candy, and also, Frank’s room is small enough as it is, a bag that size would take up a good twenty percent of his space.

“Everyone needs a gallon of sugar in their life, Frank, how do you think I get out of bed every day?”

“This explains so much about your personality,” Frank notes, looking at Pete, who now that he considers it, seems to always be on some sort of sugar high. Pete is the closest that the world will ever get to a human squirrel hybrid, and that’s probably a good thing.

“Fuck, why didn’t you tell me your birthday was so soon? Now I gotta, like rent a hot air balloon in the span of only five days, that’s a really short amount of time, what if I can’t even get a bouncy castle? What then, Frank? What then?”

“Pete, I’m turning nineteen not nine,” Frank replies.

“Okay, but can you look me in the eye and tell me you wouldn’t dig a bouncy castle?” Pete asks, and Frank can’t shatter his dreams like that so he just shakes his head. Pete’s very special, and he’s fragile, and he must be protected. 

“Okay, so like, I’ll get everyone, fuck, it’ll be great. Gerard, Mikey, Travie, Ray, that Brendon guy cause I feel like he’s having a tough week, and shit, man, I mean I’ll invite the Queen but I’m not going to make any promises about her showing up, see this is what happens under short notice, not everyone can show up. I’ll also send an evite to the ghost of Tupac, because you never know. And oh, fuck, we should go to an arcade, or to Atlantic City, fuck, I’d pay to see you drunk off your tits but I’ll have to wait a few years, won’t I, and-”

“Pete, has anyone ever told you that you have the personality of the dog from Up?” 

“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever told me,” Pete says and the lilt in his voice suggests that he means it. Frank doesn’t like Pete romantically at all, but he can kind of see why Patrick likes him. It’s very hard to be sad with a guy like Pete in your life, his excitement about the world is highly contagious. 

“Okay, but seriously, Pete, I don’t want to do anything extravagant,” Frank says.

“Cool, cool. But just out of curiosity, would you rather be the front or back of a horse costume?” Pete asks, and Frank punches him in the arm. 

“I swear to god, Pete, you’re the worst person I know.”

“I’m touched,” Pete says, holding a hand to his heart.

“Oh Pete,” Frank says, shaking his head. “Don’t ever change, you absolute nutcase.”

Pete gives him a big toothy grin in response, and then gets this flash of a look in his eyes, “Oh shit, I gotta start making preparations for your birthday bash. Gotta call everybody, gotta rent out a clown-”

“Pete, literally just invite a couple people and we can go to an Applebee’s,” Frank says.

“Don’t tell me what to do!” Pete says, and then he starts turning, evidently no longer worried about eating as he’s got bigger things to do now. “I’ll see you later, Frank!”

“Pete, don’t do something that’ll make me hate you!” Frank yells after him.

“No promises,” Pete replies, disappearing between a couple of very annoyed looking students.

Frank just shakes his head, which is usually what he does after he has a conversation with Pete, then he makes his way towards the breakfast line, grabbing himself an apple and a granola bar before he starts to make his way off to his first class. It actually doesn’t start for another hour, which gives him time to sit outside the lecture hall and read the textbook chapter he was supposed to have read last night. Somehow, he didn’t find the time even though yesterday took at least twelve years. 

Frank is early to everything in life, as a general rule. He’s early to class, early to practice, he was early at birth for fucks sake. He kind of likes it, though, he likes having the time to himself to just exist alone for a little while. 

Frank quite likes to be alone sometimes, though he has spent a large portion of his life feeling lonely. There’s a very big difference between being alone and being lonely, and Frank usually finds himself feeling lonely when there’s larger groups of people around him. With larger groups, no one really talks to him, because there’s always someone better to talk to. Being alone allows him the time to just think. He needs that refresher every now and again, because he can feel like he’s drowning under the pressure of having to talk to people all the time. 

Frank starts thinking about Gerard again, though, and that makes him feel rather lonelier than he had expected, because not having Gerard in his life the past few days has made everything a little bit bleaker. The sky is slightly greyer, and his body is slightly heavier. Gerard’s presence adds a sort of lightness to the world around him that Frank had never even realized he needed. Everything is just kind of easy with Gerard. Even though Frank is constantly torn up about how much he likes the guy when Gerard doesn’t feel the same way, he still makes everything very simple. Frank craves that simplicity more than he can bare. 

Feeling empty as he walks from class to class, Frank avoids as much human interaction as he can all day, but he realizes something is up when Patrick comes hurdling towards him at lunch. Patrick’s got this _look_ on his face that terrifies Frank the very second he spots him.

Frank had at least managed to make it a solid five hours into the day before things started to unravel, and you’ve got to celebrate the little victories when they present themselves. 

“Shit, what happened?” is how Frank greets his good friend Patrick when he comes into ear shot. Patrick stops in front of him, pauses, wheezes a little bit, and then takes a deep breath. 

“So you haven’t heard?” Patrick asks.

“Haven’t heard what?” Frank asks, and he can already tell he’s going to wish he hadn’t heard at all. He should just walk away from him and accept his ignorance. He’s also dying to hear the gossip, because humans naturally crave answers, but he’s subconsciously aware of the fact that he doesn’t want to know whatever it is that has Patrick looking like that. 

“Well, so um, it’s about the article,” Patrick replies.

“Of course it is.”

His mind immediately jumps to the worst-case scenarios. There’s a couple things that would be worst case scenario in this instance, for example, if Morgan finds out that the article is about Frank, or if Brendon has been attacked. Frank jumps to that, and hopes that Brendon is alright, because if Patrick has come to him to tell him that they found his body in a ditch somewhere he’s going to fucking hate himself. Now, logically, Brendon wouldn’t be killed for merely being suspected of being a gay hockey player, because Frank doubts even Morgan is that cruel, but he’s not entirely sure just how far Morgan would go, so he’s not going to make himself any assurances if he doesn’t know whether they’re true or not. The most likely thing out of Patrick’s mouth is that Brendon’s in a hospital, so Frank is dreading hearing those words. 

“Okay, so don’t freak out or anything,” Patrick says, which is not how you want someone to start out any sentence, in any circumstances. 

“I’m not making any promises.”

“Okay, well, that’s fair. Anyway, so, like, uh, well you know how like the article has some like catch words? That’s why everyone on campus has been talking about it, because, like it’s designed to cause controversy. It’s supposed to make people talk. Well, apparently it’s doing that too well.”

“Oh fuck, just rip the band aid off, Patrick.”

“Well, so like, it was on the news.”

“It was one the what now?” Frank asks. This isn’t what he was expecting, but he doesn’t know if it’s worse or better. 

“The news,” Patrick replies. “And, uh, not the local one.”

“You’re shitting me.” It’s worse. It’s definitely worse than he was expecting.

“ESPN,” Patrick replies, and Frank’s mouth dramatically falls open without forethought. Yeah, a lot fucking worse.

“Well fuck,” Frank deadpans, and he can genuinely feel himself falling through a blackhole. Like he can feel the ground disappear below his feet and then he’s just falling, for like, years, and years and years, while fully aware that what he’s actually doing is staring at a pillar. 

There isn’t a way to describe how he feels. He’s caught between numbness and terror. He thinks this is how a death row inmate feels the night before his execution. There’s a feeling of just absolute, inescapable fear, and there’s not much else. It’s inflated though, making Frank feel like something is about to go off inside of him.

“Frank?” Patrick asks. “You okay? You still with me?” 

“How the fuck did this happen?” Frank asks, because he’s in sheer disbelief that this is a real thing that actually happened in real life. 

Patrick grabs his phone and pulls Frank to a seat near the edge of the room where they have something like privacy. Frank isn’t thinking clearly right now, he’s just cycling through endless exclamations that all resemble a screaming sound from a horror movie. 

This isn’t actually happening, he has concluded. There’s no way that the article was _actually_ covered on ESPN. This school is tiny. Sure, there’s only sixty teams in their division, but they’ve got to be the fifty ninth most interesting school that there is, there is no fucking way that his article is actually of any interest to any news site at all, least of all sports. It’s barely even about sports. It’s just about the fact that a gay person has the nerve to exist. 

He would understand _maybe_ a local paper running with it, _maybe_. But a fucking sports monolith like ESPN? It’s just not possible. It’s not actually happening.

Then, Patrick is stuffing his phone under Frank’s nose, and his eyes are telling him something entirely different than what his brain is. He’s looking at an article, clearly a fluff piece, but still a fucking article on ESPN, that says ‘Gay Hockey Player at Armstrong University’ in big bold print and it’s just fucking surreal. It can’t be a real goddamn thing, but it _is_ a real goddamn thing and that is not logical. 

“Motherfucking shit,” Frank says, and he looks down at the phone in his hands, eyes glazing over, making it impossible for him to read the words printed there.

“It’s short, it wasn’t even on the top of the site or anything, you have to really dig to find it…” Patrick says, drifting off in a way that Frank doesn’t like.

“But?” he asks, waiting for the kicker.

“But they talked about it on their show this morning,” Patrick says, blushing. “Only in passing though. They only spent like a minute on it.”

“A minute?” Frank says, “On national fucking television? On the most trusted sports news channel in the fucking country? A minute? Patrick, a minute is a lot of fucking time when millions of ears can hear it.”

“Well… yeah,” Patrick says, flinching at the tone of Frank’s voice. 

“And how many people have commented on the article,” Frank asks, more to himself than Patrick, as he scrolls down on Patrick’s phone. His heart staggers at a jaw dropping three-digit number. He can’t even bare to look at the first one, because he just sets the phone on the table in front of him and slides it away from himself, not willing to look at what people have to say about him. 

“It’s not a big deal, Frank,” Patrick starts, but Frank makes a pft sound.

“Not a big deal, Patrick?” Frank asks, “this article was supposed to be tiny, supposed to be nothing at all! This is not at all what I signed up for! They talked about it on ES-fucking-PN. You know what they talk about on ESPN? The fucking NHL! The fucking NBA! The fucking NFL! They can’t talk about our school on the same fucking channel! It’s not fucking okay. This is a huge fucking deal, Patrick.”

“Okay, yeah, I get that, but you need to calm down, Frank,” Patrick says, and Frank inhales sharply, anger flooding through him, though it’s not directed at Patrick, but at himself. It’s just that Frank is sitting right there and the only person to express his frustration at is Patrick. He tries to calm himself down, because he knows Patrick is right about the fact that needs to, but it’s not easy. It’s not going to happen in the slightest, but he tells himself to contain it until he can find an available opportunity to scream into a pillow. He might just pop a blood vessel, but at least people won’t judge him. 

“This is not what I wanted, Patrick,” Frank says, putting his face in his hands and trying to rub the truth out of his eyes, which does not work. “I didn’t want to put Brendon in danger, or to put you on the hot seat, or to make Pete break up with you, or for Gerard to stop talking to me, or for Ray to point his finger at everybody, or for Morgan to want to kill anything that moves.”

Frank feels a flood of pent up emotions all preparing themselves to rush out, and he’s genuinely not sure if he’s going to burst into tears or not. His eyes are starting to burn, and he can tell quite shortly after the thought that the tears are actually going to come, no matter if he likes it or not. 

“Patrick, I’ve gotta go,” Frank says, before he grabs his backpack, and then starts running for the exit. He knows he’s not going to make it, because he can honestly feel everything about to unleash itself, so he instead makes a beeline for the bathroom, bursting into it with something like relief as he locks himself in a stall, and then starts gasping for air that isn’t entering his lungs. 

“Shit shit shit shit shit,” Frank groans to himself, pacing the few inches he has in the stall as he can feel tears escaping his eyes, which he really wishes he could prevent, but they’ve got a mind of their own. 

Everything seems to be crumbling down, and honestly, he doesn’t give a shit if he’s overreacting, because he’s fucking scared, and he’s depressed, and nothing is going to stop that.

This is all his fault, he brought this upon himself. If he didn’t want a reaction like this, he shouldn’t have done that interview. This wasn’t what he was expecting but he should have prepared for it. He should have anticipated some sort of fallout, and now the fallout is here, and he’s not ready for it.

How could he have been so stupid? He’s never made such a huge mistake in his entire life. He shouldn’t have done the article. He just shouldn’t have. He knows that now. Frank wants with all of his heart to go back in time. He wants to reverse it, wants to pull out the cheat codes and make it so that the article never happened, hell, he’ll go back to fucking Boston to avoid ever coming here. He hates it, hates all of this, and there’s nothing he can fucking do about it, and this is suffocating him. This is all his fault, and now he has to live with that.

He has to live in the reality that he doesn’t get a do over. He can’t just return to his last save and start over again. This is actually happening, he can’t rewind time. 

Frank puts his hands to his face, leaning against the door behind him, and he tries to suppress new tears from forming, but it doesn’t do any good. It feels like everything is breaking down, feels like he’s collapsing, like everything is collapsing. 

He wants to just hold someone. Honestly, what he wouldn’t fucking give to be able to go over to the ice rink and just have Gerard hold him, because honestly, Gerard could make things so much better if he had him. It would all still fucking suck, and he’d still hate himself for writing that article, but at least he’d have Gerard who could make the pain a little less by taking some of it off of Frank’s shoulders. Honestly, just to be held by the guy would make things hurt a little less, and a little less would be a significant thing because it feels like the weight of his mistakes are a bus that he’s being crushed underneath.

But Frank doesn’t have Gerard, and Gerard hasn’t even fucking talked to him for days. The fact that Gerard isn’t even talking to him makes things worse, because he can’t even be near the guy right now without the fear of him running away. Gerard wouldn’t understand why Frank feels the way he does now, but being near him would give Frank some sense of control. He doesn’t even have that luxury.

It feels like he’s taking on the world alone. Feels like he’s caught in an enormous storm of wind and he’s trying to run against it. 

Everything is falling apart. Only just last week, Frank had started to feel welcome here at this school. He’d started to actually like it. Sure, he was considering leaving the school, but at least he felt safe. He felt like he had a good group of people who all liked him. Now it feels like he’s pushing everyone away, or like they’re pushing him. They don’t even know it, but everyone is slowly edging Frank out of their lives, and he can’t take it. He’s finally, for the first time in his life, found friends, and they’re pushing him away. 

Gerard won’t talk to him, Ray is different ever since that article came out, Patrick is drowning, Pete is fake happy and trying to pretend everything’s alright when they both know it’s not, Mikey is still Mikey but he’s not much of a fucking help. Morgan is on the war path, and Brendon is in his line of sight, and everything that’s transpired is all Frank’s fault. Frank’s getting sick of having to tell himself that, but he knows it’s the truth and he deserves to bear it. 

“Jesus Christ, I’m a fucking mess,” Frank groans to himself, feeling like he’s still not quite done crying. 

“Yeah, you fucking are,” an unfamiliar voice from elsewhere in the bathroom replies, but honestly Frank doesn’t care. 

“Fuck off,” Frank replies, going back to the really busying crying that he’d been in the middle of. 

Frank’s entire stomach sinks when he remembers that he’s still got a class to attend today, and then he’s got practice. He just wants to go to his room and cry and feel bad for himself for an afternoon, he doesn’t want to have to be an active member of society right now. 

He doesn’t know why it’s all falling down on him now. It just is. He shouldn’t have done that article, and he knows that, he just wishes he’d realized it sooner. Why did he have to be such an idiot? What change was he expecting to inspire? Did he actually think the article could do what he wanted it to? It was all wishful thinking, idiotic now that he looks at it from this perspective. He was an idiot. He’s never done anything more stupid in his entire life. 

The fact that he can’t change the way things are turning out is gnawing at him like frost bite. 

Frank wants things to be simple. He wants things to be easy, and uncomplicated. He wants to just be gay. He wants to be on a hockey team. He wants to figure skate. He wants to have friends, wants to have a boyfriend, wants _Gerard_. He wants everything to fall into place neatly, and it pains him that what he wants isn’t a lot to ask. Everyone else in the world could have what he wants so simply, and it wouldn’t be a big deal for them. But everything falls apart because he’s gay, and it’s not even his own fucking fault. If he was an asshole than he’d deserve to feel this way, but he doesn’t think he is, and yet he has to suffer through everyone’s hate for him because that’s just the way the world fucking works.

Frank stays in the bathroom stall for another fifteen minutes, trying to cry himself out or become numb from the pain, whichever comes first.

The numbness does.

He pulls himself out of the bathroom, checks the time, and starts walking towards his next class, not even bothering to grab something to eat because his stomach doesn’t feel like it could handle food right now. He doesn’t think he can handle anything right now, not even sleep sounds like a sleep to him. 

He also feels like he deserves to suffer. It’s not because of any internalized homophobia, or anything like that, because Frank doesn’t have it. It’s because everything right now is due to his own actions. The grief, the terror for the safety of Brendon, it’s his fault. He deserves to carry that weight because he created it. 

But it can’t be said that Frank isn’t strong, and anyone who tries to claim it would be very wrong. Even though it feels like his world is caving in, Frank makes it to his next class that day, and he holds his head up high. It’s something he’s going to need to get good practice at, because he’ll be needing to do it a lot in the near future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about the long wait for this chapter, but thank you for sticking with me!


	23. Sleepwalking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone needs a Pete in their life.

Wednesday’s are complete bullshit. You’ve made it two days into the week, congrats, but you’ve still got two fucking days left. It’s absolutely disgusting, and Frank would even argue that Wednesdays are unethical by nature.

This Wednesday in particular is fucking terrible. Frank is barely conscious in his last class, and even though he is awake, he’s not even really there. His body might be, but his mind is a million miles away, huddled under a pillow fight as a storm rages on outside. He feels like shit, he looks like shit, everything is shit, and he just wants it all to stop. 

He was on ESPN. The biggest sports website and channel in the world. He was on that fucking website, and on that fucking show. That’s insane. It’s not real. He doesn’t know where Patrick is, doesn’t know that he cares. It’s not like he’s angry with Patrick, because really, it’s his own fault, that article wouldn’t have existed without him, even if Patrick is the one who wrote it. It’s still his own fault.

That just makes the internal feeling of dread all the worse. It’s corroding his insides, feels like sand is being poured into him, making him feel heavy, and sluggish.

He’s trying to look on the bright side of things, he honestly is, because he knows that there must be some silver lining to all of this but that’s not what it feels like. What it feels like is every pair of eyes in the country is now seeing through the sixteen guys on Frank’s team, and eventually, someone is going to put two and two together. There’s only so many people that they have to choose from. Frank is in danger and it’s his fucking fault.

It really is hard to look on the bright side when your life and future are put in the balance. He might lose everything. He’s on the brink of total breakdown, and things are only steadily getting worse. He doesn’t know how he’s going to make it to tomorrow let alone his birthday.

Frank doesn’t register getting up and leaving class when it’s over. His body is taking over, muscle memory at the steering wheel as his brain falls through an endless chasm of doubt. If he were paying attention, he’d probably notice that it’s cold outside and he isn’t wearing a jacket. He’d also probably notice that he’s going the wrong way. 

“Hey, Frank,” a familiar voice says, and Frank’s entire world stops, rewinds and refocuses on what is going on around him. He plays the voice over in his head, and then thanks whoever it is that he needs to thank that it’s _that_ voice he’s hearing. Frank turns in his tracks to see Gerard coming towards him. Gerard is the only person in the world who could make his shit day feel even a little bit better. He actually feels himself lighten up, like someone has blown air into him, breathing in life that he’d been losing.

“Gerard,” Frank says, smiling a little bit, the first smile he’s had since Patrick broke the news to him earlier. Gerard hasn’t talked to him in days, and it feels like it. It feels longer, in all fairness, because it’s Gerard, so it feels like it’s been centuries. Frank sighs happily at the mere sight of him, and hearing his voice honestly starts a fire within him that he hadn’t realized had gone out.

“There’s something I want to talk to you about,” Gerard says, and Frank nods, hoping that Gerard will be able to distract him from the inner turmoil he’s in. Gerard has that effect on him. Everything still sucks, even looking into Gerard’s gorgeous brown eyes, but things suck just the slightest bit less. Their suckage is the tiniest bit more bearable. 

“Pete talk to you?” Frank asks, already assuming that Gerard’s topic of conversation is going to be the birthday bash that’s going to ensure Frank will never want to leave his room again. But in a good way. Maybe. You can never really know when Pete is involved. 

“Oh, um, yeah,” Gerard says, the hint of something in his voice that Frank doesn’t realize is a lie. 

Gerard’s not an idiot. He can tell that Frank is going to be Morgan’s target sooner rather than later. The fact that he heard about this whole story on the fucking news suggests that things are about to get a whole lot bigger a whole lot quicker. Yesterday, this was an article that pissed Morgan off but was only a local story. Today, everyone in the country has access to it. Not everyone has heard about it, but a large portion of people have. That’s not good for anyone.

Gerard is trying his best not to be angry with Patrick, because Patrick could never have expected this. Patrick never knew that he was going to start a witch hunt, but Gerard is still a little pissed and hasn’t talked to him since it came out. He’ll get over it eventually, he’s sure, but he needs someone to blame and Patrick is the scapegoat. 

Gerard’s been canceling out much of the world lately, Frank, Patrick, even his own brother. It’s no one’s fault really, Gerard is just dissociating because it’s easier on his nerves. It’s hard to have to deal with everything all at once. There’s a gay hockey player, Frank’s a figure skater, Frank’s going to be skinned alive and then burned if anyone finds out, Pete’s still up to his same old tricks, and Mikey is trying to convince Gerard that Frank might be the gay hockey player, but he’s probably only saying that because he knows how much Gerard likes Frank. Everything is coming to a head all at once and it’s driving Gerard crazy. 

He just wants everything to return to normal. He wants to continue the awkward contact with Frank that leaves him feeling depleted, wants the team to be easy going, even if they were shit. He wants everything to just go back to how it used to be, because everything is changing all at once and he can’t take it. Gerard has never been much one for change, but this particular change is threatening everyone, especially the people he cares most about. Namely, himself, Patrick, and Frank. 

Gerard’s come to the conclusion that Frank needs to be warned to be careful, because if he doesn’t, he’s going to wind up hurt. Gerard doesn’t want to have to admit that he saw Frank figure skating, but Frank needs to know to cut it out, because if Morgan catches him doing that, Frank won’t turn out so lucky. Gerard catching him is a blessing for Frank, Gerard’s probably the only person on the team who won’t turn Frank into a laughing stock. Now to be fair, it’s because Gerard’s falling for him, but still, he’s the only one who would understand, and even then, he doesn’t understand it particularly well. 

Frank needs to know the kind of danger he’s putting himself in. There’s no excuse for it, not right now. This is the most precarious position the team has ever been in, and if anyone finds out, everything will fall apart. Not only will Frank be forced off the team, either by threats of violence or by his own shame, but the team will also suffer dramatically, because Frank’s their best goddamn player. Everything will fall apart so completely, and there’s a good chance they won’t be able to mend it.

“You’re birthday, huh?” Gerard says, smiling, because he can concentrate on this first, if it spares Frank the embarrassment for a few moments. 

“Yeah, Saturday.”

“Halloween,” Gerard replies with a smile. There’s something oddly fitting about Frank’s birthday being on Halloween, and Gerard can’t pinpoint exactly what it is about it. Frank’s kind of an odd person, and it’s no secret that he’s got a love of B-horror films. The fact that his birthday is the night on which all horror films take place is something very suiting. It kind of makes Gerard love him more in a weird way. Gerard could learn just about anything about Frank and it would make him love the guy more. 

“Pete’s trying to make a big deal out of it, but it’s not. I don’t want to do anything exciting or glamorous.”

“Oh, Pete’s probably just pulling your chain, I really doubt that it’ll be anything that big,” Gerard says, and this time, even Frank can see through his lie.

“Oh shit, it’s going to be terrible, isn’t it?” Frank asks.

Gerard shrugs, “probably. But like, you’ll still probably have fun. It’s Pete we’re talking about. You won’t end up dead or anything, but it’ll be a weird fucking night, that’s for sure. I’d prepare for anything.”

“Did he ever do anything weird for you?” Frank asks. 

“Oh yeah, for sure. He took me bungee jumping last year.”

“Oh shit, what did you do?” Frank asks.

“Well, I bungee jumped,” Gerard shrugs matter-of-factly. It had been a bit of a surprise, Pete hadn’t even told him where they were going, until he came face to face with the side of a bridge and was told to suit up. It was an interesting birthday, he’ll say that much.

“What?”

“Yeah, I figured why not. It was an experience, never would have done it if it weren’t for Pete, but it was fun. Don’t knock it, I guess. Pete’s an important person to have in your life, because I’m always trying new things. Need someone like that, you really do. You don’t know what you’re missing out on until Pete comes around.”

“I don’t know if I could bungee jump, man,” Frank says, “If he tries to make me, I’ll push him off wherever without the bungee cord.”

“You’ll be fine,” Gerard shrugs, laughing. 

“’Fine’ doesn’t do much for me, I’d really rather be not dead,” Frank responds.

“Oh, just calm yourself down, Pete’s eccentric not psychotic. Whatever it is he’s planning, I’m sure it’ll be fun. Weird, very very weird, and it might be out of your comfort zone, but it’ll be fun.”

“So, are you coming?” Frank asks, and Gerard’s heart stops for a moment, because really, he should just say no. He should make up an excuse about why he can’t go, because being even closer to Frank is not a good idea and he knows that. Frank makes him lose all of his senses. He can’t think when he’s around Frank. Being so close to him even now is only making him fall even more for the boy, and he can’t do that. Gerard may be an assistant coach, but even _he_ isn’t entirely safe from Morgan’s wrath. Gerard has to be careful where he steps the next few weeks, just like Frank. Gerard can’t be getting so close to Frank when everyone is on edge like this. They’ll only pick up on the things that Gerard is trying so desperately to hide. 

“I-I wouldn’t miss it,” Gerard says. He may be an idiot, but he’s an idiot whose falling in love with this guy; he’d be an even bigger idiot not to see him on his birthday. Frank’s so fucking pretty though, Gerard bites his lip as he stares down at him, at his tiny little self, and it makes his heart ache, like an actual physical stabbing inside of him that he can’t really put into words. 

“Good,” Frank says, and he smiles for real, a big one that actually makes him forget about how awful he feels for all of a couple of seconds. Gerard’s going to be there, and he’s going to be fucking gorgeous and Frank couldn’t ask for more. He’s steadily falling harder and harder for this boy.

Gerard looks at him, and Frank’s smile wipes his mind of the warning he’d been meaning to give Frank. Frank eradicates all of his brain cells, all at once, like a nuclear bomb going off in his head, leaving only Frank behind. Gerard’s left to pick up the pieces, stumbling on both his words and his feet.

“I’ve gotta go eat and get ready for practice, okay? See you later, Gerard!” Frank says, and he starts walking off in a different direction.

“Wait!” Gerard only mumbles, not nearly loud enough for Frank to hear. It’s too late anyway, Frank has already turned his attention away, is walking in the opposite direction, the way they had originally come, like he walked in the wrong direction to begin with. Gerard doesn’t notice, he just sighs after him, feeling a sickening sense of longing that is slowly eroding away his senses. 

Thursday is a blur of people buzzing about the article, which is steadily garnering itself more room in the world, gauging out a ten-minute slot on ESPN, featuring itself as a blurb in a notable national news outlet, and further galvanizing Frank’s insides. Things are getting worse. On the plus side, Armstrong is getting its first bout of publicity in about ten years. People are actually talking about the school, and it’s partially due to Frank. He should probably feel good about this, but he does not. He feels very much dead about the whole thing. His every sensation, word, and action is that of a ghost, tracing the tendencies that he’s grown used to, but not really carving out anything for Frank to really do. He’s a shell, an empty one, that’s vacant in both body and mind. 

Pete has to nudge him several times on Thursday to remind him that he needs to be a functioning member of society or else people will know the article is about him. He can’t be acting so depressed, because then everyone will connect the dots. Frank forces a smile, downs more caffeine than he’s ever required to function before, and he suffers through the day. Every second is a lifetime, but he passes. Passing is growing harder, he feels like an alien in disguise amidst a world full of strangers. He wears a mask, though, and the mask is convincing enough.

Frank isn’t entirely prepared for the game on Friday. That’s not to say that he’s not prepared for the game itself, because he’s totally ready for that, it’s the crowd he’s not expecting. When Frank steps out onto the ice for warm up, what he sees shocks and amazes him. Filling the stands are at least three or four times the number of people they usually get. They have maybe one or two hundred people in the arena during a home game, if they’re lucky. There’s got to be at least seven or eight hundred right now. They fill up nearly half of the rink, which for any other hockey team is a sorry state, but for this hockey team, it’s got to be the highest attendance in at least five, maybe even ten years.

Frank is actually amazed. He stops dead in his tracks, which is not as easy a feat on skates as it is on the ground, but he’s genuinely stunned by the turnout. It’s the only thing that brings him back to life. Frank is suddenly snapped into reality, and it’s as if he’d been completely absent since Wednesday afternoon, the last time he had a real conversation with anyone, and it had been with Gerard. It’s startling, like waking up from a sleepwalking state, but he’s somewhat relieved that he’s managed to make it this far into the week and that’s it’s not still Tuesday like his nightmares have been suggesting.

The crowd has all got to be due to the article, he’s sure. He doesn’t know what these people are expecting, though. There’s a gay hockey player, yes, but none of them know who it is. Even if they did, what are they expecting, for some guy to pull his pants down and start doing another guy in the middle of the ice? They’re idiotic to attend just because of the article. They won’t be able to tell, even if they were to interview the team they still wouldn’t be able to tell for certain. They all move so fast on the ice, there’s a good chance no one will even be able to pick them apart from each other, so if they’re expecting to play ‘pin the tail on the homosexual’ than they’re in for a bit of a letdown. 

Except, Frank isn’t complaining, not even slightly. They’ve got a real crowd, an honest to god audience, for a _home game_. Frank’s genuinely happy about it, actual excitement in his very veins at the fact that people from his school have actually come to see them play. Sure, they might be here under odd and rather unfortunate circumstances, but they’ll be seeing Frank play, they’ll be seeing the Green Knights, the hockey team that no one gives a second thought. They have an actual fucking crowd. 

Frank just hopes he doesn’t disappoint them. They aren’t a very great team. He does hope that the first game ever attended by many of these people is one that they’ll be happy to have witnessed. He’d really hate for the team to be beaten when they have their first actual crowd.

“Some turnout, huh?” Pete says, coming up from behind him and stopping there, holding his stick to his side as he looks around with the same look of awe that Frank has.

“Yeah,” Frank nods. 

“I know things are tough right now, Frank, but Patrick’s article is already doing some good,” Pete says, with a smile that Frank can’t help but to match. He’s nervous, more than he has been for a hockey game in a long while. He wants to impress his fellow students, wants to make his school proud. He is starting to feel like it’s his school, and it’s a school that he’s not particularly proud of yet, so he wants to do everything within his power to change that. Nerves or not, Frank is excited, and he is beginning to see some of the positives from the article. 

He hadn’t expected the sudden raise in attendance, but he’s not complaining about it. Frank loves hockey, loves it like nothing else. To him, hockey is all that there is to love. Not loving hockey is like not loving the air you breathe. Not loving hockey is a crime against all logic and sanity. He wants to share his love of hockey with anyone he can. He just loves it so much, he wants other people to feel the same way about the sport that he does. 

Frank and the rest of the team all crowd back into the locker room after their warm up, and Frank feels excitement in his bones, he actually can’t wait for the time to come where they actually get to go out there and play this game. He usually has crippling anxiety before games, even the ones he expects to be good at, like back in high school. It’s a sort of stage fright, because you are, at the end of the day, playing to entertain an audience. The fact that they have a real audience this time makes things a whole lot different. They aren’t playing to an empty room, no longer left in the dark. They have real people who have come to really see them, and he’s now worried that he won’t be good enough.

“Alright, team,” Gerard starts his pep talk, looking quite disheveled, but it’s not necessarily a bad thing. “We’ve got a really big crowd out there. Like, the biggest I’ve ever seen for this school ever. There’s a lot of people out there counting on us to do win this for them. I don’t want people to feel that pressure though, I want you guys to pretend it’s just practice. Pretend there’s no one out there, that no one is watching, it’s just us guys. Don’t think about impressing them or making them proud, just think about the game. Play your hardest. If you play the way I know you’re all capable of, we’ll have no trouble in showing the people out there what this team is really made of. Just go out there and play your best. It doesn’t matter if we win or lose, just put on a good game. Give the school something better to talk about. Make sure that when people talk about the Green Knights, the first thing they think about isn’t a scandal or a secret, it’s about how damn good the team is.”

Frank smiles, widely, and for the next three hours, he forgets about the article completely. He’s aware that the article is the reason for why so many people are watching the game, but he doesn’t feel any of the negativity which has been plaguing him all week. He doesn’t think about Morgan being a dickhead, doesn’t think about ESPN, doesn’t think about anything at all. Frank just plays, and he plays his heart out. 

The Green Knights win five to one. 

It’s a fucking massacre. They get out there on the ice, and to say that they’re playing their best is an understatement. They are absolutely unstoppable. Frank is inside all of his teammates heads, when he’s on the ice and even when he’s off it. He’s playing the game even when he’s not out there. It’s perfect, flawless, everything is executed with finesse and fluidity. They take about four times the number of shots they usually do, and it’s such a bombardment that the other team crumbles under their force. It’s like watching a professional hockey team, almost. They’ve still got their flaws, which Gerard is probably the only person in the entire room to notice, but they are about as good as any hockey team could ever hope to be. They’re better than they’ve ever been before, even in practice.

The crowd is like fuel, kindling to a fire. Frank is unbeatable, terrifying even, if you saw him coming at you while you were on the ice, you’d get out of the fucking way. Frank doesn’t make more than one goal, but he assists on three of them. He, Morgan, and Pete all make one shot each, one was a ricochet off of the goalie’s stick, and the last is made by Travie. 

It’s a game Frank would be proud for his children to see, let alone a crowd full of eight hundred strangers. He wishes his mother were here, because she’d be so damn proud of him now. Anyone watching the game can see that this is exactly what Frank was meant for. He could never do anything else, Frank was built for hockey, and no one can beat him when he puts his all into it.

“Honestly, I don’t even have anything to say to you guys except for way to fucking go!” Gerard says as they pile into the locker room afterwards. Frank is so sweaty that his clothes are sticking to him, and his hair is plastered in awkward directions all over the place. “You guys were unbelievable out there, where have you been hiding that shit in practice? You’re hardly the same team you used to be, and I am so proud of each and every one of you.” Gerard trails off there, making eye contact with Morgan and reconsidering his final statement. The two of them squint at each other, loathing blossoming from the glare.

Eventually, Gerard’s eyes focus on something a little less dark. Frank has felt Gerard’s eyes on him more than usual today. It’s like they’re glued to him. Every now and again when he was on the bench, he would catch Gerard looking at him rather than at the game, and he still can’t put his finger on why that would be. First Gerard was ignoring him, and now he can’t stop looking at him. 

After the game, they all go out for dinner at McDonalds, and Frank can still feel Gerard looking at him. He doesn’t know _why_. Frank adjusts his hair a few times, checks his own reflection in his phone to make sure he doesn’t have anything on his face. Nothing seems out of place, so he can’t say why Gerard’s looking at him.

It’s finally starting to sink in for Gerard that he doesn’t feel _normally_ anymore. He doesn’t just _like_ Frank, and it’s not just a crush. It’s a heart stopping, world reversing, unparalleled longing. It’s like nothing he’s ever felt before. Frank makes him feel like he’s on a rollercoaster, thrill and fear and adrenaline all pumping in his veins all at once, making it feel like they’ll explode, like the pressure will get to be too much. 

On Saturday morning, Frank wakes up to heavy knocking on his dorm room door. He’s not fully aware of his own existence yet when a very loud voice starts yelling from the other side “Open the door, Iero, you’ve got some living to do!” 

“I’ll fucking kill him,” Ray mumbles, half asleep, and Frank looks over to him, unsure of whether Ray is actually awake or not. He doesn’t appear to be. Frank groans, and he pulls himself up, feeling as though an elephant has perched itself on top of him, because it’s like pushing against a tide just to pull his body into a sitting position. He pulls his feet out from under the covers and then hangs them over the side of his bed, jumping down from it lazily, and very nearly breaking his ankle underneath him because of the shock of the gap from his bed to the floor that he’s still note entirely used to. 

Frank walks over to the door, rubbing his eyes to try to get rid of the sleep there, but to no avail. He opens it, sees Pete on the other side and then just leaves it open as he walks backwards and tries to climb back into bed, because he just wants to fucking sleep some more. 

“Happy birthday, my good man!” Pete says, upon entering, with a smile so wide and dorky that Frank almost returns it, but he’s too tired to give a shit.

“Fuck off,” Frank replies.

“Now, I’d tell you that’s no way to treat your bestest friend in the whole world, but it’s your birthday so I’m going to let it slide today,” Pete says.

“I want to go back to bed,” Frank says. 

“Bed?” Pete asks, “it’s nearly noon! It’s your birthday, you can’t sleep till noon on your birthday.”

“Let the man sleep,” Ray mumbles, turning his head to the side and pulling his pillow over his ear to block out the thunderous sound of Pete’s voice. 

“I want to sleep,” Frank repeats, stringing the last word out as he stops in the middle of the room, eyes not really open, as if he’s making to fall asleep standing up.

“Nonsense! You gotta get up, gotta get dressed, we gotta get some of your birthday stuff in before practice tonight,” Pete replies. “And then after practice, oh fuck, we are gonna raise some hell!”

“Shit boy, I just want to sleep,” Frank replies.

“Ugh, _Frank_! Oh! I know, you get dressed, I’ll be right back and bring you a Dr. Pepper, and maybe a five-hour energy, because you look like a zombie.”

“Pete,” Frank groans. “Just wanna sleep!”

“I’ll be back in ten,” Pete says. “I expect you to be up and ready to go too, Toro!” 

“You’re not my mom,” Ray says, and he gives Pete the finger as he rolls over in his sleep, trying to ignore the both of them. 

Pete leaves their room, and Frank closes the door behind him. He’s tempted to pull up his desk chair and block the door, or just lock the boy out completely, but he decides against it. He blinks a few times, squints at the sunlight streaming in through his window which he is not prepared to face, but he gets used to it as he starts to look around him. 

He yawns widely, and noisily, stretching his arms out along with it. It’s a very satisfying yawn, one of the ones that makes you feel lighter once it’s over, and Frank decides that he might as well get dressed if Pete’s going to be acting like that all day. Grin and bear it, today is the day where he gets to take a break from the article and just celebrate his birthday. 

Frank kicks around at the floor where he’s been throwing his clothes, and pulls on something that he hopes is clean. He doesn’t really care if his pants are clean either, and then he looks himself in the small mirror on the door and tries to figure out if he looks passable or not, but he doesn’t really care if he does. He fixes a few strands of hair that are out of place, but his hair is short enough that not much work needs to be done. He sighs and decides that he looks good enough. Good enough for what he’s still not sure, because he doesn’t know what’s happening today.

Ray doesn’t budge, and when Frank nudges him in the shoulder, he finds that the guy is asleep again already. Frank doesn’t want to bother him, so he decides to let him sleep. They were out pretty late last night celebrating, so Frank figures that if he doesn’t get to sleep in late, than he can at least let Ray.

Pete returns a few minutes later, five-hour energy and Dr. Pepper in hand, both of which Frank accepts gladly, because he never says no to free caffeine. 

“Are you ready to take on the fucking town?” Pete asks. 

“I’m not awake yet, gimme a minute,” Frank replies, uncapping the Dr. Pepper and taking a long swig of it, waiting for it to settle in before he’s ready to say or do anything. He pauses, blinks his eyes again just to make sure that he is actually conscious, and then he shrugs a little bit.

“Alright, I guess I’m awake,” he says.

“Awesome!” Pete says and he turns around and starts heading out the door, not even bothering to try to wake Ray up because he can tell that the guy is a brick right now. 

“So where are we going then?” Frank asks, closing the door and then drudging along after him.

“I had a couple ideas,” Pete says.

“Please tell me it’s not bungee jumping,” Frank says.

“No, no, that was Gerard, you’re not really a bungee jumping kind of dude,” Pete says.

“So, then what?” Frank asks.

“Well I booked out the party room at Ihop, because it was such short notice and they were the only place available, so we’re going there after practice,” Pete says.

“Great, I like pancakes,” Frank says, feeling a little relieved at the prospect, because he can definitely handle pancakes. If pancakes are the wildest he gets then tonight is not nearly as scary as he had expected.

“But right now, I was figuring that since we’ve got about four or five hours to kill, we could go get you a tattoo,” Pete says. Frank should have known pancakes was not all Pete had planned.

“A what now?” Frank asks, stopping dead in his tracks while Pete continues walking. Pete senses rather than sees Frank stop, so he turns around, sees Frank halted completely in the hallway, and just rolls his eyes.

“It’s my birthday present to you!” Pete says.

“I don’t know if I want a tattoo,” Frank says, feeling agitated at the mere thought.

“Of course you do, Frank, have you looked in a mirror lately?” Pete asks, and Frank doesn’t know what he’s implying, but he feels a little offended.

“I really don’t think so,” Frank says, not really considering the idea more than that, because he’s fairly sure that this is just not the kind of decision you make on a moment’s notice.

Pete groans, and then walks back over to him, and says, “Come on! Dudes think tattoos are hot. You’ll honestly get at least twelve times hotter with a tattoo, and you know it! Everyone looks hotter with tattoos, especially nerds like you. Can’t believe you don’t already have one, I mean honestly, you’re such a fucking Hot Topic punk.”

“I am not!” Frank says, actually getting offended for real this time.

“You’re wearing a Misfits shirt!” 

“Lots of people have this shirt!” 

“That’s my fucking point, bruh,” Pete says, “you’ll look good with a tattoo, and you fucking know it. You might even get a boyfriend. Unless that’s what you’re afraid of.”

“I hate you, you know that? But I mean, yeah, I guess it’d be cool, but I don’t think this is the kind of decision you make in a split second,” Frank says. 

“Then think about it for a minute,” Pete say, pausing, and pretending to freeze in place as he watches Frank who makes an overly exaggerated sighing sound.

“You’ve honestly never considered it?” Pete asks, looking very skeptical.

“Well… I mean-”

“Aha!” he shouts ecstatically. “You’ve thought about it a bunch, of course you have you’re a fucking nerd. You’ve even got an idea, I can see it in your eyes! Quick, hit me with it, first instinct is always the best one.”

“Well, so I guess I kind of want a jack-o'-lantern, because, like my birthday is Halloween?”

“Oh, man, I knew you were a fucking nerd. But that’s sounds fucking cool, so I’m already on board. Let’s go fucking do it, Frank! I know the best guy, he’s done all of my tattoos, and he’s only a few minutes down the road,” Pete says, and he starts walking again.

“But, I don’t know for sure, and I mean, I should really think about it some more, and-”

“Unless you give me a definitive, foot down ‘ _no_ ,' we’re going to go get you a tattoo. I get being afraid of needles or just not wanting one, so it’s cool if you don’t, but I really think you do, like I can tell that right now you’re thinking about how cool it would be. And if you’re trying to talk yourself out of it because you think it’s too expensive and you don’t want me to pay for it then stop that right now, because it’s your birthday, and there’s nothing I love more than spoiling my friends. If you say you want it, then I will shell out the fucking doe on your tattoo, because I think you need one.”

Frank considers for a long moment, walking in pace alongside Pete as he does so. He’s thinking about several different things all at once, and no tangible reason is actually coming to him for why he shouldn’t. Frank has always kind of wanted a tattoo, and he probably would’ve gotten one by now if he actually had a friend to go with. He’s kind of afraid of having small talk with strangers which is why he’s never gotten one by himself. That, and because he’s never worked a damn day in his life, even though he really fucking should have by now because he’s nineteen fucking years old. He’s just been too busy with hockey. Someday in the not too distant future hockey will be his job though and he’ll make money just by playing it. For now, however, Frank has five dollars and a bag of Funyuns to his name. 

He is a little weary of Pete paying, obviously, because that’s at least a couple hundred bucks that he’s willing to lay down, and they’ve only known each other about three weeks now, which is a very short amount of time for someone to decide to spend that amount of money on him. He doesn’t know that he’s worthy of generosity like that.

“Pete, it’s a lot of money.”

“Yeah, and I fucking love buying people things!” Pete says, “I get a kick out of it, ask Patrick. I like spoiling people, it’s fun! And it’s your birthday, Frank. You’re only nineteen once! You gotta make the most of it. I’m not going to push you off a bridge like I did with Gerard. I did that because I knew he wanted to do it, but he never would’ve if I didn’t make him. You want a tattoo, I can see it in your eyes, but you’re never going to get one if I don’t make you. So I’ll do it, it’s your birthday present. That and the mountain of candy I’ve got stashed in my room.”

Frank frowns a little, still contemplating. Tattoos are damn fucking expensive and Pete is actually offering to buy him one for his birthday than really, he should be jumping at the very thought or sucking the boys dick or something, but he’s not going to do either because he’s cool and because Pete is gross. 

“Will it actually make boys think I’m hotter or are you just saying that?” Frank whispers, though there’s no one around to overhear.

“Everyone thinks tattoos are hot, Frank. There’s only two types of people who don’t like tattoos: old people and boring people.”

Frank considers it some more, wonders how Gerard would feel about Frank having a tattoo. Not like Gerard would care, but he still wonders. Gerard loves horror movies about as much as Frank does, and everyone likes Halloween. Gerard would probably love it, and he’s an artist. Gerard must appreciate art in all forms, even tattoos.

“I mean, alright,” Frank says.

“Yeah?” Pete asks. “I’m only going to buy you a tattoo if you’re fucking jazzed.”

Frank laughs, and nods, “Yes, I want one! Tattoos are cool. And if you’re buying, then there’s really no good reason to say no.”

“Fuck yeah!” Pete says, excitedly. “And Patrick didn’t think you’d go for it, wait till I tell him! A jack o’-lantern, boy I really thought I was gonna get have to suffer through some tribal ass shit, but that’s fucking cool man. Halloween boy, best birthday ever, fuck.” 

“Yeah?” Frank asks. “It’s not lame?”

“Fuck yes!” Pete says, excitedly. “Halloween is the best goddamn day of the year, and it’s your birthday no less! I can’t think of a better idea. It’s perfectly you in every way.”

Frank just rolls his eyes, feeling a huge kick of adrenaline start to pump through him at the prospect that he might have an actual fucking tattoo in a few hours, something that he really has wanted for several years, but never really gave himself permission to dream about. Frank grins widely to himself and follows off behind Pete on their grand adventure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that this chapter isn't much, I've been super stressed with school, but everything is finished now so updates I hope should become more frequent very soon!


	24. Before the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good things and bad things.

Frank arrives to the locker room earlier than he normally does, Pete along with him, because Pete has not left his side literally all day. Frank’s grinning a little wider than he has in probably two weeks, and that’s counting the game they won yesterday, and honestly all the other games he’s played this year probably. He’s really excited about the new tattoo. He’s beyond excited. This may be the happiest he’s ever been about anything.

“Frank!” Gerard’s voice shouts, erupting from the office which he’s either rather conveniently just exiting, or which he has been perched outside of for the past twenty minutes waiting for Frank to walk past so that he could wish him a happy birthday. Gerard’s not going to admit that the second one is more accurate. 

“Happy birthday, Frank!” Gerard says rushing over to him, and stopping just as he comes a foot away from him, because he realizes it’s not appropriate to hug a guy when you are another, totally heterosexual guy. It’s not like it would really threaten the already severely lacking masculinity that Gerard pretends to have, it’s just that it’s not a very straight thing to do. He definitely thinks about it some, and wishes that there was a good reason to hug Frank. If he’d just won a game it wouldn’t be weird. Gerard’s hugged him after a game before, he wishes he could do it now. Life is hard sometimes.

“Thanks,” Frank says, smiling back, his grin wider than usual and Gerard immediately takes notice, because there’s nothing, or at least, very few things, that Frank could do which he wouldn’t notice. Gerard would notice if Frank tried out a different shampoo. 

“What’s up with you? What did Pete do?” Gerard asks, unable to prevent himself from smiling back, because Frank is fucking perfect and when he smiles it’s like the lights turning on in the darkness. 

“I just got a tattoo!” Frank says energetically, with this vibrancy in his eyes that Gerard could only ever wish to put there. 

“You got a… a tattoo?” Gerard asks, a little lost for words, because he can definitely say he hadn’t expected that. He knew Pete would do something big and glamorous, Pete’s kind of just that person, birthdays are a big fucking deal to him, but a tattoo is definitely not what Gerard had envisioned. He thought Pete might have been serious about the whole hot air balloon thing that he mentioned. Knowing Pete, it might stull fucking be on the schedule.

“Yeah!” Pete says, looking very happy, but not quite as hyper as Frank. “You got to go bungee jumping, Frank got a tattoo!”

“Well… I mean stop talking about it and let me see it!” Gerard says, sounding excited. 

Gerard blushes a little bit when Frank turns around and lifts up his shirt, because Gerard is an awkward person and very much attracted to this boy. There’s some cling wrap taped to his back over a large tattoo near the top of his back, that had certainly not been there before. It’s a quite simple, but startlingly detailed jack-o’-lantern, that Gerard could only describe as being wholly and completely _Frank_. The whole area is red, and the little details aren’t very obvious under the cling wrap, but he’s sure that it’ll look even better in a few weeks once it heals.

Gerard just kind of looks at it and makes this meek little sound deep in his throat, that is so quiet that no one can hear it. It’s a very pained sound, pained longing, and agitation. Pete wasn’t wrong when he said boys think tattoos are hot. 

Gerard can imagine so many not so family friendly things right now, and it’s not okay that he’s thinking that about Frank. He would trace that tattoo for hours on end, leave him a couple hickeys there as well for good measure. Honestly, the things Gerard would do to Frank is a list so long that it would require an entire notebook, and possibly more. He really shouldn’t be thinking things like that about anyone he knows, let alone a _friend_. Gerard gave up the hopes of squashing this crush long ago, he’s head over heels for Frank, and that’s just the way it is.

“Great, huh?” Frank asks, turning back around, looking even more excited still.

“Yeah,” Gerard nods, mirroring his expression. “Looks good. It’s really you. I like that it’s Halloween, it’s just really… appropriate?”

“I know!” Frank says, and Gerard’s surprised that Frank isn’t bouncing up and down. “I didn’t even know how much I wanted it until it was happening and then I’m like, fuck, man like I want to just be covered in tattoos. Not even kidding. Head to toe! When can I get another? Fuck!”

“Maybe for your twentieth,” Pete says, rolling his eyes, but in a loving sort of way.

“Wish you hadn’t done that, Pete,” Gerard shakes his head, “makes my birthday present for Frank look kind of pathetic.”

“Oh, you got me a present?” Frank asks, looking surprised, but excited. Frank isn’t quite a puppy, and Gerard wouldn’t describe him as such. Pete is a puppy, there’s no doubt about that, but Frank isn’t. Frank, if you had to describe him as anything, seems more like a bunny. He’s got that same lovable face, and cuteness flooding off of him, but he’s also very soft and somewhat hyperactive, but not in the way that Pete is.

“Yeah, I left it in the office, I can go grab it now, if you like?” Gerard says, not sure if he even wants to follow Pete after his kickass present.

Frank nods vigorously, because he’s not one for surprises or suspense, and he also really likes receiving presents. Gerard scampers off, into his office a little way down the hall, and returns shortly thereafter with a poorly wrapped present. It’s the kind of wrapping that you can tell was definitely meant to be good, but it was done by someone who doesn’t really understand the mechanics of wrapping presents, so it is very endearing. It’s a large mass of an object, wrapped carefully by what appears to be an eight-year-old, so Gerard probably did it. Frank accepts the thing from him gladly, surprised when it feels rather lighter than an object of its size probably should. There’s a familiar rattling sound from on the inside that causes Frank to immediately guess what he’s about to uncover, which gives him a grin, that makes Gerard’s heart burst, fly around the room, and then splatter into a million pieces across the floor. 

“Fuck, it feels like Christmas,” Frank says eagerly, as he tears the top off of the thing, exposing a familiar movie cover which seems oddly suiting considering the date. Staring at Frank is the movie _Halloween_ , a personal favorite of his, because Frank is a sucker for cheesy horror films; the older, and cheesier the better. It appears that the entire stack is made up of DVD’s, so Frank tears away the rest of the paper, exposing several other horror movies, almost all of which he’s seen.

“You mentioned at one point that you only owned all the classics on VCR, and you don’t even have a VCR, so I thought you might want, like, a new set, and I mean, it’s not much or anything, but yeah…” Gerard explains, feeling like an idiot, for getting Frank a bunch of movies that he’s obviously already seen, and it was stupid. He blushes to himself, thinking about how idiotic a present this clearly is while Pete’s standing there all high and mighty, having gotten Frank probably the best present Frank’s ever been given, a whole fucking tattoo, while all Gerard did was buy him a couple movies. Now to be fair, there’s thirteen movies in all, and they set him back a good hundred dollars, but he’s not going to mention that. 

“Gerard, this is honestly,” Frank shakes his head, looking at the titles, one by one, as Gerard waits for the kicker that’s going to send him into a depression, “fucking awesome!”

Gerard’s ears perk up and then the blush he’d already formed, instead of going away, grows brighter and further, touching the tips of his ears, his neck, and even his fucking nose. “Really?”

“Um, yes,” Frank says, “Half of these are like my favorite movies! Mom never wanted to buy them ‘cause she doesn’t like horror. But, like, this is awesome, seriously.”

“Yeah? Good, okay. Because you could always rip them online if you really wanted, or, go out and buy a VCR-”

“Gerard, thank you a lot,” Frank says, noticing that he’s rambling and someone needs to save the boy from himself. “I really appreciate it, and I fully expect to come over sometime and have a horror movie marathon, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, definitely,” Gerard says nodding, and smiling and just generally being adorable. The thought of spending an evening with Frank Iero watching horror movies sends chills down his spine, and it’s not the monsters, jump scares, or gore that do that to him.

Gradually, the rest of the team start to pile into the building, prompting Pete and Frank to head into the locker room to change, leaving Gerard standing there in the hallway feeling _different_. Frazzled would be a good word to describe Gerard right about now. Frazzled and desperate.

Mikey is one of the last to arrive, and when he walks in, he sees his brother standing against the wall with his head in his hands and he just _knows_. Gerard and he have a telepathy, the same kind that twins have. He can sometimes read Gerard’s mind, even from hundreds of miles away. Mikey is better at reading Gerard though, and that’s because Mikey sees, hears, and knows everything. They have been known to have silent conversations with each other, though, which is why they’re no longer allowed to be on the same team in Charades.

Sighing heavily, Mikey walks over to his brother, and Gerard looks up the second he recognizes Mikey’s feet, which come into his frame of view. Gerard’s got this pathetic look on his face which even a little kid could read. His expressions tend to be overly dramatic, you can always read what’s going on with Gerard, or at least, that’s how it seems to Mikey.

“I bet I know what this is about,” Mikey says, looking around to see if anyone can hear before whispering, “Frank?”

“He’s so fucking pretty, Mikes. His smile, and his eyes, and fuck, his eyelashes! Have you seen his eyelashes, fucking hell, it’s like looking at an angel. And he’s so cute and funny and sweet and pretty. And he just got a tattoo, Mikes. A tattoo. You know what drives me fucking crazy? Hot boys with tattoos. That was probably the only thing he could’ve done that could make him hotter and he went and fucking did it!” Gerard replies. “I can’t even describe to you how that makes me feel.”

No one else enters the locker room, and looking out the window, it doesn’t seem that anyone else is on their way. Mikey and Gerard both keep their voices down, though, because it wouldn’t do well to have anyone overhear them. The locker room door is rather heavy and basically soundproof, so it’s not like anyone in there is going to listen in.

“Okay, first of all, gross. Second of all, I still think you’ve got a shot there, Gee.”

“Will you shut up about that?” Gerard groans, “Even if I did have a shot, which I assure you I do not, things are really, ugh, you know, tense right now. It would be dangerous for the both of us. Like if anyone were to find out, he’d be done for, and I could kiss my job away too. And no one would hire a gay coach. It just won’t work.”

“Secret relationship. Chandler and Monica did it.”

“Chandler and Monica got caught.”

“But they also got married,” Mikey says, as if this is supposed to convince Gerard of something. He makes a sort of mic drop face which makes Gerard rolls his eyes as Mikey starts walking away, disappearing into the locker room, and leaving Gerard feeling very exasperated in the hallway. Gerard runs a hand through his hair, severely messing it up, but he doesn’t care because he’s internally combusting. He walks off, back to his office, hoping to try to collect himself before the evening.

Frank sees Mikey walk into the locker room, and collapse on the bench next to a very groggy and sluggish Ray. Ray’s got bags under his eyes so large that small mice could use them as hammocks, which is hard to believe because he got at least a few more hours of sleep than Frank. Mikey looks tired or fed up with something, his facial expression matches the yawn that comes from Ray not a moment later.

“What’s up? You look moody,” Pete asks, throwing something at Mikey that he catches without hesitation, which is kind of freaky but to be fair, so is Mikey. 

“My brother is… being himself,” Mikey says, exasperatedly, flailing his arms about as if to express the entity that is Gerard. 

“I was just talking to him, he seemed fine,” Frank says, because Gerard had seemed perfectly normal a minute ago. He was a little red, but that was obviously because he felt a little embarrassed about how much less extravagant his gift was compared to Pete’s.

Mikey suppresses his immediate instinct to reply with ‘well it’s your fault that he’s acting like he is.’ Frank gets Gerard all hot and bothered, and it’s always Mikey that’s got to help him pick up the pieces after basically every interaction the two of them have. Maybe the two of them dating isn’t such a good idea, Gerard would probably melt into a puddle and then fall between the cracks in the pavement, never to be seen or heard from again.

Mikey has come to the almost conclusive decision that Frank is gay, not really because of the way he acts, but because he looks at Gerard in a way that has no heterosexual explanation. Frank would totally be able to fly undercover if it weren’t for that tiny little detail. Frank isn’t super obvious, you wouldn’t pick up on it if you didn’t really know to look for it, but the fact that Gerard is so crazy for Frank, makes Mikey very watchful of the two of them, and the way they interact is entirely gay. Frank reciprocates the babbling, the heavy breathing, the excessive blushing, the same mannerisms that make Gerard’s crush so obvious. Mikey hadn’t been sure or even really considered it until the article came out, but now that it is out, it seems rather obvious. The article fits perfectly with Frank. 

Mikey doesn’t know how or if he should bring this up with Frank, though, because there’s always a chance that he’s wrong. Mikey’s never been wrong before, about anything, but there’s a first time for everything. 

It’s not like he’s going to tell anyone, Mikey likes the guy, it’s just that Gerard drives him up the wall sometimes. Mikey’s going to keep telling Gerard to go for it, and eventually he’ll either listen or kill him. He’ll keep Frank’s and Gerard’s secrets, but he’s sure eventually the two of them will crack. 

“That’s Gerard for you,” Mikey eventually says. 

Practice is routine, and dreadfully long. Frank is excited to get off the ice, and to get on with the rest of his birthday, because he is feeling oddly excited and energetic about the date, which is somewhat abnormal for him, given that he usually doesn’t make a big deal out of it at all.

“Alright party people,” Pete announces to a portion of the locker room once they’re all scrambling their way back in. “Hurry your asses up, it’s a very special boys very special birthday.”

“You turning eight, already, Pete?” Morgan snipes from across the room.

“Excuse you, I’ll have you know, I celebrated my eighth birthday _last_ year. Which makes me this many,” he says, holding up nine fingers.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Morgan replies, and Frank shakes his head, because in this instance, it is obvious to see that Morgan is not going to win. When it comes to amusing, dumb, or moderately insane comebacks, Pete is the undisputed winner.

“That’s because I’m ageless, eternal youth and the works, unlike you! Oh snap! Need yourself some lotion, Morgan, it’ll really help with those frown lines.” The fact that Pete exists is a fluke of existence. 

Frank turns around to look at the locker room. Brendon is changing hastily, quicker than Frank’s eyes can keep track. He’s been doing that every day for the last week. It’s quite clear that Brendon is trying to get out and away from Morgan as quickly as he possibly can, and this is a good idea, because Morgan can’t hurt him if he can’t find him.

Frank considers going over there and asking Brendon if he wants to hang out with the rest of them, because the boys been having a hard enough week, he really could use some fun. Just as he makes to do this, Pete beats him to it, walking over to his twig-like form and giving him his best, most wide, and also most terrifying smile. 

“Hey Brendon, Brendo, Brendorino… I started regretting it the second I said it, I’m sorry, it’s too late, my sincerest apologies,” Pete says, and it wouldn’t be weird if he did that to someone else, but Pete hasn’t talked much with Brendon, though it’s not like it’s because of a lack of trying. Pete does an overwhelming job at trying to include everybody, and he always makes an attempt, it’s just that sometimes people don’t accept it very easily.

Brendon doesn’t pause from his swift changing, he just glances towards Pete with confusion.

“So, I was wondering if you wanted to come hang out with me and some of the other guys? It’s Frank’s birthday. We’re celebrating with age appropriate beverages and other jovial good times. Jell-O shots, which are actual Jell-O with no alcohol because that would be illegal and I’m a responsible guardian, and maybe some mechanical bull action. Oh, and glitter… lots and lots of glitter.” 

“I’m not interested, sorry,” Brendon says, because he doesn’t seem to be a very warm person. It’s not that he’s mean, or even a bad person, it’s just that he doesn’t have a particularly welcoming nature about him. He’s probably a great dude once you crack that shell, but his shell is very thick, and very hard. Pete will get there eventually, might take a little pushing, but he’ll get Brendon. The key is to recruit Brendon to the light side before he makes it over to the dark. He doesn’t want any Anakin Skywalker shit going on under his nose. 

“Not even for pancakes?” Pete asks, making this face like this will surely convince him to come along.

“I’m good, really,” Brendon says.

“I’ll buy your dinner?” Pete offers, making an expectant face that’s a mix between excitement and uncertainty. “Free pancakes. I won’t even put glitter on them.”

“Uh,” Brendon groans, shutting his locker and staring at it for a moment or two. “Maybe another time.”

“Okay, I guess,” Pete says, and Brendon doesn’t stop to give him a response before he starts walking out of the locker room, with purpose and speed. “Good talking to you. Let’s do it again sometime.” Pete shouts after him, even though it is clear that he has stopped listening.

“You tried, and that’s what matters,” Travie says.

“Has anyone managed to talk to him any?” Pete asks, returning to their group, and looking at the others curiously.

They all shake their head, turning to each other, and Frank is surprised to see that none of them say anything more on the topic. Brendon is as enigmatic as they come, and also as introverted with everyone as Frank had just witnessed with Pete. 

“Gosh, we gotta get that guy in the squad,” Pete says, shaking his head. “Well, that’s an adventure for another day. Until then, we’ve got an appointment with pancakes. Oh, write that down, sounds like a new James Bond film.”

Pete guides the group out of the locker room. Morgan and his posse still changing, pay them little to no mind as they walk past. Gerard is waiting in the lobby, talking with Patrick who’s got his glasses pushing down the brim of his nose.

Pete stops, stares out the window and makes a squeaking sound that is indecipherable by mankind and animals alike. “Rain! On Halloween! Oh my, Satan is bringing me a message,” Pete says, running over and putting his face against the window. His breath leaves an immediate white fog of condensation across the glass, and it appears as though Pete is trying to hug the window or push himself through it. 

Frank shakes his head, staring out the window and becoming quite eager to go out into the drizzle outside, hoping that it becomes more. Frank has an infatuation with the rain, whether it’s the mood in the air, or the rain itself, he doesn’t know. He just knows that he needs rain, because it makes everything just sort of calm down, and become serene and simple. The sun makes everything feel like it’s under pressure. Maybe it’s because the world slows down when it rains. People drive slower, events tend to get canceled, everyone’s first topic of conversation is the weather and it probably should get old very quickly, but it doesn’t. Rain makes everything come together. 

“Frank, the weather couldn’t be more perfect. It’s like God is crying because his favorite of all creations is turning nine-fucking-teen. And when I say favorite, I am obviously excluding Beyoncé, because we all know she is the fairest of them all.”

“Pete,” Gerard says, in a certain tone of voice, as he just shakes his head. That’s how it is best to describe him. Just his name uttered in the tone you would use if someone you love has just done something entirely stupid.

Pete swivels where he stands, to look at everyone who is now staring at him like he’s a maniac, but Pete pays this no mind, whatsoever. “Is everyone here?” Pete asks, looking around at the faces, and nodding as he does a head count. “Looks like it. Onward we go! To the Ihop!” Pete says, “a pancake adventure, the best kind if you ask me.”

“Where is Ihop?” Frank asks.

“It’s like two miles away,” Gerard says.

“Fuck,” Frank says. “And no one has a car?”

“I have a car!” Travie says.

“Thank fuck.”

“But it’s parked at my house. In New York.”

“Well that’s not much of a fucking use, is it?” Frank groans. He likes the rain, and he does enjoy walking around in it, but he doesn’t like walking long distance in any weather. Frank is not a particularly lazy person, he gets all the exercise he needs through hockey, but walking gets on his nerves because it’s not nearly as fun as skating. The sensations are a world apart. Skating makes you feel alive, unstoppable, and fast. Walking makes you feel tired, slow, and bored. 

“We walk!” Pete says, leading the group, marching along to his own drumbeat. 

“He’s so weird,” Frank says, shaking his head. 

Patrick, who he hadn’t noticed was standing right next to him, sighs lovingly and says, “yeah.” Frank follows along behind Patrick, with his own sigh, because he so wishes he fucking had that.

Frank catches the door behind Mikey who holds it for him, and then steps out into the air, which is cold for rain, but too warm for snow. He doubts that the rain is going to be turning into snow, and the rain’s going to wash away what little evidence there might have been that it’s even October. 

Then Gerard comes to walk in stride with him, and Frank smiles, because it almost feels like he _does_ have what Pete and Patrick have. It’s just not the way he wants it. Frank, ultimately, knows that he will find a way to be happy just being Gerard’s friend. It may take years, or possibly will never happen, but he supposes he’ll get over this crush he has on Gerard as well. The fact of the matter is, if he can’t have Gerard romantically, while it may suck, at least he has him as a friend. That is the second best thing.

“How’s your birthday so far?” Gerard asks. 

“Good,” Frank replies, “don’t know what I’m going to tell my mom about the tattoo, though.”

“You don’t have to tell her anything,” Gerard shrugs. “What she doesn’t know can’t hurt her.”

“I tell my mom everything, though. My mom is like the best person I’ve ever met.” 

“How could that be true when I’m in your life?” Gerard says, making a face and grinning. Now, it may be true that Frank is practically in love with Gerard, but he’s not in the business of pretending that he likes him more than his mother. Frank doesn’t like himself more than he loves his mother. Gerard’s a second, he’ll give him that, just not a particularly close second. 

“No, like if it were a list, my mom would be first, then Ovechkin, probably just all of Black Flag, the Cookie Monster, and then maybe a couple dozen more and then there’s you.” 

Frank looks up ahead to note that he and Gerard are the furthest back in the group, the rest of them all in pairs or trios, talking with each other. Frank is content to walk with Gerard, and when they’re at the back, it almost feels like they’re alone. Only tidbits of blended conversation can be heard from the others, which Frank hears as nothing more than white noise.

“I feel loved,” Gerard says, frowning exaggeratedly. “The cookie monster, though? Really?”

“He’s just a big inspiration for me,” Frank says, nodding. “The way he just… eats those cookies. I really feel for him.”

“That’s fair,” Gerard nods. “You should go on Sesame Street and meet him in ten years when you’re a big celebrity.”

“When I’m a what?” Frank asks.

“When you’re a world-famous hockey player! We both know you’re on a straight track to the NHL,” Gerard says matter-of-factly. 

“We both know that’s the _goal_. That doesn’t make it a certainty.”

“But how far off is it when you’re as good as you?” 

Frank blushes, and then looks around, looks at the cars that drive past him, making a very distinct sound on the wet pavement that sends a spark of familiar contentedness to Frank’s heart. The headlights illuminate the wet streets below, along with the lampposts which look like beacons in the night. 

“What about you?” Frank asks. “You want to coach, you want to animate, you want to write comics. But if I’m in the NHL in ten years, where are you?”

“Hopefully I’m still somewhere in your phone contacts,” Gerard responds, and Frank, who had changed the topic of conversation to _avoid_ blushing, only blushes further. 

“That’s not an answer.”

“I don’t know, though, and that’s the only answer I can offer you. I don’t know where I’m headed in life. Right now, I’m just doing what I want, and it’s just convenient that what I want happens to make sense. But maybe in the future, it won’t be so easy. We’ll see. It’s not like I need to decide right now. 

“That’s what people keep telling me, and yet it feels like every day, people keep pressing harder for an answer,” Frank says.

“They never stop, really. Gosh, I feel so old sometimes,” Gerard says, making a face. He’s not that old, he’s a year out of college, and he’s got the maturity of someone half of his age, so he’s definitely not ageing any time soon.

“You’re only like four years older than me,” Frank replies. “You’re basically still a college student.”

“I still live and eat on campus,” Gerard says with a shrug. “And coach the same team I did when I was in college. But _they_ pay _me_ now.”

“Living the dream,” Frank smirks.

“Well maybe in ten years when you’re a famous NHL player and making appearances left and right on Sesame Street, I can write a tell-all about coaching you and ride the sales all the way to the bank.”

“You’ve strategized this already,” Frank says, looking over at Gerard with squinted eyes.

“I’m keeping my options open, and realistic.”

“That’s realistic?” Frank asks.

“Well you becoming a famous NHL player surely is, like we’ve already established. I don’t know if anyone would read a book by your assistant coach in college, but who knows, there’s a market out there for everything, isn’t there?”

“You’re so…” Frank trails off, because he’s started out that sentence with the intention of saying ‘cute’ before he realized that he’s not allowed to say that to Gerard. “Strange,” is what he ends up going with. “I just hope you paint me in a positive light in your future biography about me, that’s all I ask.”

“Hm, we’ll see, I’m still debating that one. I’d probably sell more copies if I made up flagrant lies about you. ‘I once saw Frank Iero kick a pigeon for trying to eat a slice of pizza off the ground. He then picked up the pizza and ate it himself.’”

“Fuck off,” Frank says, punching him in the arm, and shaking his head. 

“What! It would sell way more copies than ‘Frank was always really nice to me, and was a great hockey player, even back then. We talked about comics and horror movies. He was a good friend.’ That version might be more truthful, but it’s not going to make it into the gossip magazines.”

“You’re so odd. Oh-so weird. Just a fucking weirdo.”

Gerard just snorts, and nods, and Frank dies a little on the inside because fucking hell, Gerard’s laugh is the cutest goddamn thing he’s ever heard in his entire life. He wants to bottle it and keep it under his bed for when the world gets dark and cold. Save these little moments he has with Gerard for a rainy day.

Their group stops at a traffic light. There’s not an extraordinarily large number of them, not that Frank has bothered to count, but their party includes all of Frank’s friends on the team, as well as Patrick who’s tagging along because everyone knows that he actually is a part of the team. Honestly, Patrick sometimes seems like more of a member than Morgan does. 

“Is Pete going to make the Ihop staff sing to me?” Frank asks, suddenly realizing that that is a thing that people do on birthdays. “Because if they do, I’m buying a one-way ticket to Canada, buying a house under a rock, and never coming back.”

“’Course _you’d_ run away to Canada,” Gerard shakes his head. “You’re a hockey brat through and through, Iero.”

“I never claimed to be anything but,” Frank says. 

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Gerard admits, casually.

Their party get a white walk sign, and make their way quickly across the intersection, Frank avoiding the pothole filled with rain water that Pete misses and sticks his whole foot in. Pete shakes it off, both literally and figuratively, but his foot is going to be cold as heck for the rest of the night. Not like you’ll be able to tell, Pete is the most overwhelmingly positive person you could ever hope to meet. He could find a positive spin to the zombie apocalypse. The only time Frank’s ever seen him down was when he and Patrick broke up for all of five hours.

Frank checks the street twice, not to look both ways to avoid being run over, because, as a college student, it’s Frank’s moral duty to claim he’d enjoy being run over by a car. Instead, he’s checking back alleys to see if there’s a way for him to ditch the group. Not because he doesn’t appreciate Pete’s effort in all of this, because he does, it’s just that he’s having a panic attack now just thinking about the staff singing happy birthday to him. He’s had nightmares about it. They were rough.

“Trying to find an escape route?” Gerard asks.

“No…”

“If you just ask him not to-”

“Oh, but he’ll be like ‘gotta step out of your comfort zone. You got a tattoo today, but you can’t handle a little song?’ or something equally as degrading.”

“You know Pete, he’s not like that, Pete doesn’t have a condescending bone in his body.”

“Yeah, but you know what would be easier?” Frank says as he ducks into a side street as quickly as he can, and since the two of them are at the back of the group, no one notices but Gerard.

“Frank!” Gerard groans, looks around at the others, none of whom have even noticed, being too thoroughly engrossed in their own conversations to pay them any mind, which is a surprise, because Gerard happens to know that Mikey’s ranting on about Mario Kart, because he can hear the boy complaining about him from ten feet away. Mikey and Gerard get along very well, but when they don’t get along, nine times out of ten, it is because of Mario Kart. It’s hard to believe he could be so thoroughly engaged in Mario Kart talk that he’d somehow not notice two people disappearing, because Mikey is a very observant person, who has eyes in the back of his head. It’s hard to pull one over on Mikey.

The side street that Frank has crept into is one of the ones that runs along the back of stores, the kind of place only the owners of the shops should have access to but for some reason remains a public street. He gets a good glimpse of some dumpsters and some big green electronic boxes stacked next to the big buildings which presumably look all well and great from the front, but look just like massive blocks from the back. 

“Frank, come on, Pete’s going to notice when he gets to Ihop and you’re not behind him, because, I don’t know, it’s _your_ birthday we’re celebrating.”

“Yeah, but if it’s my birthday, shouldn’t we do what I want to do?” Frank asks. “I just kind of want to lay low, and be, like, I don’t know mellow. I don’t need Pete being super ‘ahhh!’ in my face, you know? You know how Pete can be. I appreciate it, and I love the guy, but, like, I don’t need it. I’d be fine if it was just you and me at like a Wendy’s or something.”

Gerard frowns, because the only reason you ever hear about people being at Wendy’s at this time of night is if they’re high or they are about to be high. This is an obnoxious stereotype, because Gerard, as a general rule, is open to eating chicken nuggets at all times throughout the day.

“We should get back to the group,” Gerard says, and Frank just rolls his eyes.

“Oh you, always the stickler, aren’t you?”

“I’m not!” Gerard replies, “I’m like, I’m an easygoing person?” 

“Are you? You’re kind of bossy.”

“Well, I’m in charge when we’re in the hockey rink,” Gerard says, defensively. 

“You know I’m just teasing you, right?”

“You’re an asshole,” Gerard rolls his eyes, but he looks over at Frank anyway whose got that big grin plastered on his face and it’s impossible to be upset with him. It’s impossible to say not to him too, Frank is like a little kid asking for something, because he’s irresistible, he’s just too cute. 

“As my coach, should you really be calling me that? Seems a little unprofessional,” Frank says, laughing, and Gerard pushes him into the wall next to him, which only causes Frank to start laughing, not _at_ him exactly, just laughing. Frank is rather giggly today, perhaps because it’s his birthday, but it might also be a high he’s riding because of his tattoo which he’s so fond of.

Gerard can’t help it, he doesn’t know why, but whenever Frank laughs it’s contagious. He smiles back at him, chuckling lightly, and goes to stand next to him against the wall, where Frank is being the cutest fucking person Gerard’s ever seen and simultaneously torturing Gerard because of it. 

Frank is special. Frank isn’t like anyone else. Morgan is a great hockey player, one of the best goddamn players that Gerard’s ever seen. He’s absolutely stunning, and your eyes automatically train on him when he’s out there playing. Except when Frank is out there. If Frank is on the ice, it’s impossible to look away. Even people who don’t know him can tell how good he is, how much of a force he is out there. It’s impossible not to be astounded by him. Morgan is nothing compared to Frank, which is quite the compliment, given that Morgan is a damn good hockey player.

The weird thing is, Frank is better than Morgan at the sport, but he’s also more down to earth. He’s got the better hockey skills, and he’s a better person. He’s a real person, a caring, kind, gentle person who’s funny and empathetic, but he’s also one of the most talented people Gerard knows. To make things worse, he’s also super fucking hot. It’s kind of unfair. It’s unfair that someone gets to look like that, be that talented, and is still one of the nicest people Gerard’s ever met. The fact that Frank’s not an asshole is what makes him an asshole. 

Gerard leans against the wall, just staring at Frank for the longest time, and he can tell that there’s a long gap of silence that doesn’t really feel like it. Frank’s laughter dies down when he’s hit with the gravity of Gerard’s closeness. He’s unbelievably close to him, their faces only a few inches apart, Frank could easily just lean in, close the space between the two of them and that would be that. It would be so easy. It almost feels like the mood would be right for it.

Frank’s senses become a little fuzzy, and so does reality. Frank’s not entirely aware of what’s happening or if what he thinks is happening is actually happening or not. He forces his thoughts to remain as undecided as he can, because he’s certain any moment of any thought will be proven wrong and make him look and feel like an idiot. 

It feels like the space between himself and Gerard shrinks. It feels like Gerard’s leaning in, and Frank is sure that he’s leaning in as well though he hadn’t planned on it initially. The world stops around him, of that much he’s certain. Noise, smell, movement, everything stops but Gerard. All Frank sees is Gerard, getting closer. All he smells is Gerard, who smells like he always does, a very distinct tangy smell, that’s almost feminine but not off-putting. The only movement in the world is his own, and possibly Gerard as inches grow smaller between the two of them. No wind, no cars, just the two of them. Frank hears nothing but silence, as if the world has become aware of how important this moment is and has decided to cut off all sounds so as to make it special. 

Frank is about to kiss Gerard. It’s going to fucking happen. He’s seconds away from it. He’s going to get his first kiss, and it’ll be with Gerard. Gerard’s going to fucking kiss him. 

Or at least, that is what Frank’s brain is trying to convince him is not true, because he knows with his senses that it’s not logical. It’s wishful thinking, and something deep inside of him knows that, but it’s being subverted by Frank’s scathing yearning to kiss him. He has never in his entire life wanted _anything_ as much as he wants to kiss Gerard right now. Frank hasn’t ever had any urge stronger than this. He feels like an animal, almost, so controlled by his own instinct and want that he loses sight of his own logic. 

Gerard’s just as confused by what may or may not be almost happening. He’s lost in the moment, that’s for sure, so it’s not entirely sinking in that this is not actually happening the way he thinks it is, but he’s distracted by what he wants to be true so much so that it doesn’t even really occur to him that he could be about to ruin his entire friendship with Frank.

Gerard is also aware of the fact that logic is against Frank wanting to kiss him. It’s highly unlikely, because Frank is too perfect, and even though there’s a certainty that at least one person on the hockey team is gay, he’s too confident in the fact that the world is a cruel place to believe that it’s Frank. Things would all be too good, working out far too well if Frank were _the_ player. It wouldn’t be great for Frank’s career and life, obviously, but for Gerard, Frank being gay would be the best news in the entire world. Frank has churned desires Gerard’s never had before, for anyone, and for Frank to feel a semblance of how he feels back would be far too good a coincidence for the universe to allow it to happen. Good things like this don’t just happen. So, it’s clearly not what he thinks it is, and he is definitely about to ruin their friendship.

“Frank! Gerard!” a voice says, and it shatters everything like a rock through a window. It’s a deafening cataclysm of sound, probably the sound of both Gerard and Frank’s hearts breaking at the same time.

But the moment that they both believe to have been manufactured in their own minds is gone. It’s irreprehensible, and devastating, but it’s vanished like a puff of smoke. 

Gerard suddenly realizes how close the two of them had just been, and he takes a sizable step back, which Frank does too, on instinct. There’s silence between the two of them, nothing at all, but the two of them both share looks of thunderstruck confusion.

Reality has come back to them, and Frank is honestly feeling thankful more than he is anything else. He had been almost about to kiss Gerard. If he had done, he’d probably have ruined everything he’s ever worked for in his entire life. He would’ve ruined his hockey career, would’ve ruined his school days, would’ve ruined the relationship with the friends he’s managed to make, probably would have gotten him a beating or two from Morgan. He would surely have lost Gerard. Everything would have washed down the sewers, the same ones collecting the rain water around him. His entire life would be gone, vanishing down a murky stream of water.

Frank knows it was all in his head. Their ‘ _moment_ ,’ it can’t have been anything but a daydream. Frank would’ve kissed Gerard, though, and he would’ve lost the guy from his life completely, it would have been devastating, and to count it with all the other things he’d lose would be unbearable.

The fact that he was interrupted from making the biggest mistake of his life is the birthday gift he needs more than anything. Then again, the best birthday gift would have been for Gerard to have been gay, but he can’t always get what he wants in life.

Gerard feels like someone has just pushed him down a flight of stairs. The moment is lost, and even though he knows it wasn’t real, it would have been so great if it had been. He’s lost something that never really existed, but it’s a loss nevertheless. It’s like waking up from a dream and realizing that’s all it was. And in a sense, that’s all that this was. It’s just a dream. 

Frank and Gerard leave the side street, abandoning the escape plan, as they return to the party of guys who find it amusing how they ran away. Both of them choose to forget what they know can’t be true, making them both feel a little bit emptier inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright so, I'm going to warn you ahead of time, things are about to change drastically with this fic, so be prepared for that (and I'm really fucking sorry).


	25. The Storm, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick has an epiphany.

Life is unfair. This is a lesson we all must learn at one time or another, some in more painful ways than others. 

Frank likes to think he’s taken the blunt of most of what fate has in store for him. He thinks that he’s been through the majority of the hard times, and that at this point, nothing can really surprise him or catch him unaware. He’s already a gay hockey player who figure skates and can’t tell anyone about it, because he’d probably ruin his entire future if he did. That’s a precarious, dangerous, and corrosive place to be in. He’s also got a hopeless crush on a boy who can’t love him back. He’s got the anxiety, the depression, the pressure, and the stress. Things are fucking hard, and everything is pretty shitty. The article only made things worse. Things cannot, from this point, get any worse. 

Another lesson we all must learn is that things can _always_ get worse. 

The weeks are beginning to pass by Frank, fast and swift, he’s hardly even aware that time is passing at all. Suddenly, it’s November, and snow has covered the ground. It barely feels like a week since Frank got here, but it’s actually been a month, almost exactly. In that month, the team have played seven games, and of those seven games they’ve won five. To say that the team has seen a spike in success would be an understatement. Considering their net losing streak, they’ve had a near one hundred percent increase.

Frank wouldn’t pretend this increase in skill is all due to him, it is a brand-new year after all, and the team had only played one game when Frank got here, which they did lose, but it was only _one_ game. The fact that they’ve been increasing in skill dramatically could just be due to the fact that there are new players, and several other players left. The fresh faces have added color to the mix, and maybe that’s why they’re getting better.

Of course, no one but Frank is denying his role on the team, except for maybe Morgan and his cronies. They all know it. Everyone is playing better, that is definitely true, but it’s because Frank makes them want to play better. 

Frank has fallen into the scheme of things, everything is beginning to become familiar. His classes feel normal, the practices feel right and become more enjoyable, everything is turning out very well. It’s been a week and a half since the article came out, and everything is starting to die down about it. The whole predicament has faded into obscurity, no one seems to remember or really care about the article anymore. 

Frank no longer feels the thrum of his classmates discussing the article as he walks across campus. He’s starting to be able to breathe again. His birthday bash had taken a lot of the strain off of him, because it was pretty much the first night he got to have pure and simple fun without feeling the pressure all come crashing down on him all at once. Pete has that sort of effect on people. He can make you forget you’re in pain for a little while when you’re near him. Gerard has that effect too, but only on Frank. 

The school has all but forgotten about the entire incident. The team, however, has not let it go so easily. 

Morgan has moved on to a new target in the form of Mikey Way. Brendon is still definitely on his radar, that’s for sure, but Morgan’s giving the blunt of his evil glare to Mikey now, not Brendon. The difference is that Brendon had many physical altercations with the guy, one of which was during practice and left Brendon with a bruise the size of Alaska on his leg, but other than a slight limp, he’s doing perfectly fine. His limbs are still intact, and no appendages have been removed, so he’s come out relatively unscathed.

Mikey became the new target on the Monday following Frank’s birthday, and the bullseye on his back was quickly made clear by Morgan slamming Mikey’s locker door closed several times, nearly crushing his fingers inside of it once. He also “ _mistakenly_ ” left Mikey’s hockey stick on the sidewalk instead of loading it on the bus when he was supposed to, meaning Mikey had to borrow a stick from their rival team on Wednesday. That same hockey stick was then somehow found in a dumpster, though no one could possibly explain how this could have been an accident. Mikey also got a creepy voicemail, but this turned out to have just been Gerard butt-dialing his brother while playing Call of Duty.

Morgan is more afraid of being hands on with his intimidation of Mikey, because Gerard, despite being much smaller, weaker and all around more pathetic, would definitely try to beat the guy up if he touched Mikey. _Try_ being the operative word, of course. 

Gerard has, yet again, tried to use this new evidence and some sneaky shots of the bruise on Brendon’s leg to convince coach to kick Morgan off of the team, but she must have trained as a lawyer in school because she counters that a bruise on Brendon’s leg and some heresy do not incriminate Morgan with anything other than speculation. Coach is a good person, she really is, but she’s very far in denial. Morgan is one of her best players, no one wants to have to admit there’s a rotten egg in the bunch, especially when it’s prettier than all the rest.

Nevertheless, the eye contact that Morgan and Gerard make in passing would be enough to petrify Medusa. Gerard is probably just one straw away from actually beating the shit out of Morgan. A broken hand, foot, six ribs, and lawsuit later, he’d still probably think he did the right thing.

Frank is sure that as soon as Morgan gets bored with intimidating Mikey, he’ll be next. Ray isn’t as likely as Frank is, because Ray’s about five inches taller, and quite a bit bulkier than Frank to begin with. Also, Frank is quite a bit gayer than Ray, and you don’t have to know his secret to see that much. Frank is definitely next on the list, he has no doubts about that.

Frank is prepared for it when it comes, or at least, he’s trying to psych himself up to be. He knows it’s coming, it’s inevitable. If he is careful the next month or two, no one will be able to tell. Eventually, even though it is going to take some time, even the team will forget about this whole thing. If they keep playing as well as they have been recently, no one is going to have the time to worry about exposing the gay player, because they’ll be in the NCAA tournament, or on the road to it. That should distract him. Frank’s got to be play even better than his best. 

The week after Frank’s birthday is one of the weeks where they have two games crammed into one week. The first is an away game, about an hour away from Armstrong, and the second is a home game. The crowd for their Wednesday game is quite small, but so is the arena in which the game is played, so this doesn’t say much. The other team is not a particularly good one, definitely on the lower tier of teams, probably better than the Green Knights were a month ago, but they’re barely even the Green Knights anymore. The crowd on Saturday is thinner than it had been at the game a week before, but it’s still vaguely larger than their usual crowd, so at least one lasting effect may come of the article. Their win on Wednesday is pretty spectacular, by several goals, but that’s because the other team sucks. The second game is neck and neck the entire time, Armstrong only pulls ahead in overtime.

On the Monday following the two games, Frank finds himself in a pleasant mood. The morning passes by very quickly, and without trouble. Frank finds Patrick in the dining hall, sitting alone, save for the one person Frank doesn’t know if he wants to see right now or not. Frank takes a couple of deep breaths before he takes the spot next to Gerard, looking at him with this wistful expression on his face. Frank bites his lip instinctively when Gerard turns to look at him as he sits down and smiles widely upon seeing Frank.

All Gerard is thinking about is how fucking great Frank looks today. He’s so fucking gorgeous. His hair is a mess, he’s got a pimple in the middle of his cheek, and his clothes don’t match but he looks absolutely stunning. As usual. The asshole.

“Hey,” Frank says, and Patrick can tell that the word is directed at Gerard and not him, but he shrugs it off and plays his fork around in the pasta in front of him. 

Frank and Gerard have been a little odd lately. They’re still speaking with each other, quite often in fact, but there’s a weird sort of tension that neither is aware that the other one feels. Frank feels very uneasy being so close to Gerard, remembering the last time that he had been so close to him. He hasn’t dared get as close as they had been that Saturday night. 

Gerard keeps thinking about how close they had been to kissing. Gerard definitely would have done it if they hadn’t been interrupted. That would have been bad. It would have been good for half a second before Frank pushed him away and probably punched him in the face. 

Patrick can see the tension like a brick wall between the two of them. It’s odd, and he’s sure there’s a reason, he’s just got to put his finger on it. Frank and Gerard have always been rather odd when they’re near each other. Frank doesn’t act the same way with Gerard that he does with himself or Pete. Frank seems almost uptight when he’s with Gerard, or like he’s got a stick up his ass. He’s also trying to be very, for lack of a better word, proper when he’s near Gerard. Patrick supposes this is because he views Gerard as an authority figure, which is ridiculous to say the least because Patrick once saw Gerard drink an entire 2-liter bottle of Mountain Dew by himself, straight from the bottle, in one sitting.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t do that horror movie marathon last weekend,” Frank says, still biting his lip which is definitely off, Patrick notes. Does he normally do that? Patrick can’t recall.

“It’s alright,” Gerard says, “you had to study, it happens. Maybe next weekend, yeah?” Patrick sighs, wondering if the two of them are tense because Frank blew off some plans. This is why he and Pete rarely make plans, they just get up to mischief in their free time. 

“I’d love to,” Frank says, and he smiles in way that indicates he really would love to. Patrick’s not a huge fan of horror movies, but he can’t imagine a more ideal setting to have a date. Just think, if he gets scared, or rather get’s “ _scared_ ,” he can curl up into Pete and that is a great situation to be in. He should propose it sometimes. There would be some major cuddles.

“The weekend wasn’t a total bust, of course,” Gerard says, “That game was great, I’m really proud of you. You were amazing. You made the winning goal, and fuck, I almost cried.”

“Thanks,” Frank says, blushing. That’s a little weird too. Patrick is analyzing them through squinted eyes, trying to figure out what the fuck happened. It must have happened within the past two weeks, because they have been acting very strangely, ever since, well, ever since Frank’s birthday. 

Even at the restaurant, the two of them had sat next to each other, and every time one or the other bumped the other it was like a bomb going off. They flinched, breathed deeply, and then tried to pretend everything was normal, when it was clear things were not. 

Could something have happened in those five minutes where they lost the group? What though? If it had been something big, they’d have told the others. If they’d been mugged, there would be no reason for them to keep quiet. If one of them pissed the other off, they surely wouldn’t be so hospitable to each other. What could have happened then, that makes them walk on egg shells?

“It’s unbelievable how fast we’re improving now that you’re here,” Gerard says, looking excited, “We might actually have a chance this year. Though I don’t want to jinx it so forget I said anything.”

“It’s not because of me, you know,” Frank says, “I mean I might have started off a chain reaction, but it’s not on my shoulders. Everyone is getting better. I only got a glimpse of what kind of team you were before I joined it, but it’s really not the same team it was. It’s only been a month and it’s already like we’re a different team.”

“Actually, I don’t think anyone really has changed,” Gerard says, “they’ve just finally started trying.”

“They were trying before,” Frank counteracts. Patrick grows disinterested in the conversation. Patrick lives hockey all day and all night, the least he’s asking for is a little bit of a break when he’s eavesdropping.

“Not the way they are now. I mean, I love Mikey to death, but he is not nearly as invested in hockey as you or I, or really anyone. He’s no diehard, that’s for sure. But since you got here, I think he’s started to realize how much of a damper he was putting on the team, like he wasn’t trying his hardest, never has. When you got here, it made him realize he needed to step up his game. I think a lot of people have done that. Most everyone, especially Morgan, though I hate to say it.”

“He’s an asset. Emphasis on the ass.”

Gerard laughs, and he laughs way more than he really should, because it’s not a good joke and he probably knows that. Patrick gets a flicker of an idea in his head. It’s like when a dog thinks it’s heard the “walk” but isn’t quite sure, so all you see is their ears twitch. Patrick’s face falls into heavy concentration as he looks at the two of them.

“You’re the best player, though,” Gerard says, “and you know that, don’t you?”

“I mean, I think I’m just the most dedicated. And invested, probably. I have a bigger investment in hockey than I do in anything else. Hockey is my life, if I’m not the best, or one of the best out there every night than I’m literally wasting my life.”

“You could play with a broken leg and be blind in one eye and still be the best goddamn hockey player I’ve ever seen. As it is, you’re already a shorty, but you still skate circles around everyone else.”

“Shut up,” Frank says, blushing way too much, and that’s when Patrick has his epiphany. It’s like a flash of lightning, where night becomes day. His heart and nerves all burst, squealing the word “Eureka!” 

From the other side of the table, Patrick chokes on a piece of penne, and Gerard and Frank both turn to him, in shock and concern. Neither of them had even realized he was still there. Frank always puts on horse blinders when Gerard is in the room, and it’s not his intention. 

“Dude, you okay?” Gerard asks, putting a hand on Patrick’s shoulder and internally freaking out because he had ditched school the day they learned the Heimlich maneuver. If Patrick dies, his high school PE teacher will return from the grave and punch Gerard in the face. 

“Fine,” Patrick says in a squeaky voice, as he coughs some more.

“What even happened?” Frank asks, confused, and still rather concerned at his red face, and his justifiably _hacking_ cough. 

“Just swallowed wrong,” Patrick says, “nothing.”

“Okay, just don’t die, because like, who else could we get to write so many amazing articles about the team?” Gerard says. 

Patrick doesn’t say anything, just glances from one to the other, trying to confirm his own guess, but he’s already sure. Now that he looks back on it, he can’t _believe_ he’s been such an idiot. Gerard bought Frank about a dozen movies for his birthday, when everyone else got the dude a card and a bar of candy. Gerard let Frank borrow his comic books, when Patrick isn’t even allowed to breathe near them. Gerard took Frank out to breakfast once? Gerard always sits next to Frank when he can, on the bus, in the dining hall, at restaurants, on the bench. 

Not to mention Frank; Patrick originally thought he just blushes a lot, but now that he thinks about it, Frank only ever blushes around Gerard. Frank is always around Gerard. Frank is always finding new ways to ask questions about Gerard, or to bring up Gerard in conversation. Right fucking now Frank is looking at Gerard like he’s a piece of artwork that is somehow more captivating than anything else on the face of the planet. 

Frank is head over heels in love with Gerard. And Gerard is heels over head in love with Frank. 

He does wonder to himself if the two of them are aware that they like each other, or if they’re already dating in secret maybe? If that’s the case, then why wouldn’t Frank have told him? He understands why Gerard wouldn’t, until about twenty seconds ago, it never occurred to Patrick that Gerard likes boys. Maybe Frank wouldn’t tell him that, but Patrick is inclined to believe he would. 

But what if neither of them have any clue? What if they’re both in love with each other but too afraid to say it because of the fear of rejection? If that’s the case, then does Patrick not owe it to them to tell them? If they’re both hopelessly in love, but neither can say it, would Patrick actually be doing them a favor by telling them? If they both knew what Patrick can now clearly see, surely they’d both be thankful?

But what if Patrick is reading things wrong? He really doubts that the case, but it’s possible. He has been wrong before. Though, the two of them look at each other like Pete looks at pizza, so it must be true love.

Patrick does not know what to do with this information, so he decides to hold onto it, though he feels a little weird about it. He just sits and eats a bag of chips for the rest of lunch, watching Frank and Gerard be totally fucking gay for each other, with neither of them even realizing it.

Frank’s afternoon classes are boring and uneventful, but they’re not unpleasant, so he can’t really complain. He drifts through the hours at a pretty normal pace, preparing himself for the practice tonight which is sure to be more vigorous that usual, as they’re next game is against a team which is quite a bit better than they are. 

Frank is walking back from the library, his stomach a little empty because all he ate were things he could find in the vending machine, but on the plus side, at least he wrote most of the paper due next week.

“Frank,” Pete shouts, trying to catch up with him as he grabs the door to the rink. On a day as cold as this, it almost seems ludicrous going into a building full of ice. Frank stops, holds the door for him and waits for him, a little impatiently, because the cold bites at his nose and fingertips. Frank sometimes gets crabby in the winter, because he has a very low core temperature, and the cold only worsens that. He also gets sick all the fucking time.

“What’s up?” Frank asks, when Pete grabs the door from him and steps into the warm building, a relief that washes over the both of them, but does not immediately stop their shivering. The two of them wipe their feet by the door, scraping off the snow that’s stuck in the treads of their shoes, leaving the carpet looking wet and dirty.

“I’m fucking cold, man,” Pete says.

“You’re from Chicago, Pete,” Frank says, shaking his head. 

“Hey, just because I live in the cold doesn’t mean I like the cold.”

“Well, the cold never bothered me any-”

“You finish that sentence and I chop off your dick,” Pete says.

“Duly noted.”

Frank brings his head into his shoulders, in the hopes that it’ll make him warmer, but it does not. The two of them step over to the locker room, opening the heavy door, where an immediate wave off hot, smelly air hits them. Frank doesn’t know why it is that all locker rooms are hot enough to be saunas, but it is a universal truth. Today they find the heat welcoming, and walk further into the locker room to find it completely empty, which isn’t very peculiar as they’re about fifteen minutes earlier than they really need to be. 

Frank changes rather sluggishly, as he’s got plenty of time to kill. Pete hums something to himself, something that if Frank were to ask what it is, he’d probably facepalm. 

“So, Frank,” Pete starts with this tone that simply cannot precede anything Frank will want to discuss. 

“Oh god, what is that tone?”

“Nothing,” Pete says, his voice lilting in a way that tells Frank that whatever it is, it isn’t nothing.

“Pete,” Frank says, pausing and narrowing his eyes at him.

“Okay, okay fine. Patrick told me that he thinks you like someone and I wanted to know who it was.”

“He said what?” Frank asks, looking confused.

“He said he thinks you like someone, but he won’t tell me who.”

“I don’t like anyone,” Frank says, blushing a little bit. 

“Oh my god!” Pete shouts, a little too excitedly. “Look at that red face! You do, you do like someone! Tell me who it is!”

“I don’t like anyone!” 

“Yes, you do, it’s in your eyes!”

“Ugh, since when does Patrick give out secrets? That is not okay,” Frank says, making a face, because the last time Frank had a secret, Patrick had kept it so well that Pete broke up with him, so he wants to know what’s changed. Patrick has never even brought it up with Frank, and if he does seriously think Frank likes someone, why wouldn’t he talk to Frank about it first?

“He told me that he thought a friend had a crush on someone, and he wanted advice because he didn’t know what to do about it, and I guessed that it was you,” Pete shrugs, “actually, you were just the first person I’ve seen since Patrick said it, so I thought I’d throw a dart and see where it landed. Lucky me, though, because it really is you! Your face says it plain as day!”

Frank asks, “It’s not me, I assure you. You’re just seeing what you want to see.”

“Oh it definitely is you,” Pete says, grinning, “look at your face!”

“Oh my gosh, Pete, you’re literally the worst.”

“You might as well admit it,” Pete says, smirking. He is entirely unaware that the subject makes Frank uncomfortable instead of embarrassed, which is his intended goal. 

“Pete, just forget about it,” Frank says shaking his head and using a somewhat pleading voice, because he does not want to talk about this right now, or with Pete at all. He’s fine with Hayley knowing, because he doesn’t see Hayley on a day to day basis, and Hayley isn’t best friends with Gerard. Pete knowing is an entirely different story. But now Patrick might know too, and he can trust Patrick with a secret he knows that for sure, Patrick has definitely proven it, but he’s not so sure about Pete. Frank trusts Pete to keep the gay thing a secret, because he keeps his own sexuality a secret, but the fact that Frank has a crush on Gerard would be harder for him to maintain secret, given that he’s Gerard best friend. He’d probably accidentally slip it up when talking to him and then everything would disintegrate. 

Frank just wants to steer the topic of conversation as far away from crushes, especially his particular crush on Gerard, as possible. Pete can’t know. Patrick, maybe, though not quite yet, because Frank doesn’t know if he wants someone so close to Gerard to know that he likes him. It might just make things uncomfortable, but if Patrick knows already, then he supposes there’s no harm in telling him.

“Who is he?” Pete asks, eagerly, getting that stupid fucking puppy dog look on his face that would have Patrick melting right about now. But Frank is not Patrick, and Pete is gross.

“Fuck off,” Frank replies.

“Is it someone I know? Oh, is it someone on the team?” Pete asks, looking excited. Frank doesn’t answer. Pete reads his lack of an answer as if it were an answer, “Oh shit, it is!” 

Frank just rolls his eyes, turns his back to face Pete and tries to hurry up getting dressed so he can get the fuck away from Pete as fast as he can. He’ll have a couple extra minutes on the ice, but he could always use some more practice. He’d woken up very early this morning to practice his figure skating, and he’s feeling that fatigue in his bones, but he’s never too tired for skating. Or at least he tells himself that to rationalize spending an extra ten minutes on his already sore feet so that he can get away from Pete.

“I’m going to guess it eventually, and your face is a dead giveaway,” Pete says, watching as Frank hurries faster than Pete thought possible. “Is it Mikey?”

Frank doesn’t respond, because it would be better to not give a response than to tell him it’s not. If he gives Pete a negative, that will only cancel out some options, whereas if he says and does nothing, Pete will not be able to narrow it down.

Frank is also a little concerned with Pete’s health given that his first guess is Mikey. It’s not like there’s anything wrong with Mikey, it’s just that Frank can’t imagine a relationship that would feel more like dating a serial killer than being with Mikey Way. Dating an actual serial killer would still probably feel more normal than dating Mikey. Also, there are so many sharp edges on that boy, he’d probably cut himself if Mikey were to poke him with his elbow. 

“Oh, who am I kidding, I know who it is,” Pete says, sounding very sure. Frank tenses up, though he tries to pretend he doesn’t. Pete can still see it, and he smiles widely when he says, “it’s Travie. Obviously.”

Frank sighs a little, in a way that he hopes doesn’t give away his relief. He hopes it could be interpreted as defeat. To be fair, Travie is the best guess as he is the most attractive human Frank’s ever seen. Other than Hayley, of course, but he’s gay so she’s definitely out. 

“That’s fair, Travie is pretty good looking,” Pete says, probably to himself.

“Just, shut up, okay?” Frank asks, shaking his head. Pete doesn’t seem to have caught on to the fact that he’s wrong, which Frank is okay with. He’d much prefer Pete thinking he likes Travie than knowing he likes Gerard. 

“Don’t worry your secret’s safe with me,” Pete replies, giving him a huge smile.

“You’re an asshole.”

“I know!”

Frank shakes his head, but then exits the locker room, making his way for the ice, because he doesn’t want to be around Pete anymore. He just wants to be out on the ice where everything is simple and nothing has to be so angsty. Everything is a lot easier and more clam when he’s on the ice, even if he’s surrounded by half a dozen guys who want to push him into walls and stuff. The ice is still where Frank feels at home.

Little does Frank know, Morgan enters the locker room just as Frank leaves it, a sly smirk on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good News: I should be posting the next chapter either tomorrow or Sunday.  
> Bad News: It's not a particularly pleasant chapter.


	26. The Storm, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I want to implore everyone to exercise EXTREME caution when reading this chapter. And I don't want anyone to think I'll blame you if you need to abandon this fic entirely.

Frank can immediately sense that there is a difference in the air when the rest of the team gets on the ice with him. It’s not something he could explain, it’s just a feeling he has. It starts with the glare he gets from Morgan, which is somehow so horrific that it curdles the blood of his unborn grandchildren. 

From the second Gerard starts them off on their drills which are monotonous and routine as always, it already feels like Morgan has it out for him. Frank isn’t prepared for being backchecked by his own fucking teammate, while he’s just trying to pass the puck to Pete. It sends him sprawling to the ice below him, too caught off guard for him to try to prevent it. He doesn’t even have time to put his hands out, and his stick catches him in the ribs as he goes down, which knocks the wind out of him.

Frank looks up after the attack, to see Morgan laughing as he skates away. Frank looks around to see if Gerard or anyone else noticed what just happened, but Gerard is busy talking with Coach about something, and clearly didn’t notice, because he’d probably have killed the guy if he had seen it. Frank gets back to his feet as quickly as he can, because he doesn’t want Morgan to think that he’s gotten to him. Frank finally looks over at Pete to see that he’s looking just about as scandalized as Frank feels. Pete is glaring over at Morgan who is laughing with one of his muscled friends who looks like a monkey that accidentally got mistaken for a human and just started playing along. Pete looks ready to attack, but Frank catches his eye and shakes his head, telling Pete no. 

Frank shakes it off, as best as he can, and continues on with practice, thinking little of it. Until fifteen minutes later when he feels an elbow to his side, which doesn’t throw him to the ice, but leaves him with a jabbing pain and dull ache that he can tell will leave a bruise tomorrow.

This time, Gerard does see it, and he starts screaming at Morgan. “What the fucking are you doing, dude, he’s on your fucking team? This is a fucking practice, if your own teammate ends up with a broken rib because you hit him in practice, you’re going to be on the bench for his entire recovery!”

“It was an accident!” Morgan shouts at him, with this little sneer, that says it was anything but an accident. It’s been about nineteen years since anyone has believed a word out of Morgan’s mouth, his own parents probably realized he was a bad egg once he started preschool.

“Your birth was an accident, you fucking asswipe!” Gerard replies, and then Frank watches as Coach berates him for his unprofessional language. Gerard shakes his head in a way that Frank immediately reads as a refusal to apologize. Coach just sighs, and shakes her head. The little time Morgan was given to be an asshole to Frank in private is now over, because everyone suddenly becomes aware that Frank is the newest target.

Frank stays acutely aware of Morgan from that point on, realizing very quickly what this must mean. Morgan has switched his attention from Mikey to him. He doesn’t know what has caused this sudden reversal, but Frank isn’t exactly unsurprised. He knew this was coming, it’s been in inevitable danger he’s been aware of for about two weeks now. 

Frank hates that if something terrible does happen, it’ll be his own fault. He’s the one who gave that interview, he’s the one who allowed that article to go out. It’ll be his own fault, whatever happens to him, just like it was his fault when Brendon and Mikey were Morgan’s targets. 

He knows he probably should be relieved that it’s him who’s being attacked now and not the innocent people he put in the line of fire, but he knows that wouldn’t be honest. Frank is kind of selfish, and he’ll deny that to anyone who asks, but it’s still true. He doesn’t want to be hurt, attacked or anything. He also doesn’t want his friends to be hurt or attacked, but he’d still rather they were in pain than himself. That’s the sort of thing that he knows makes him a bad person, but he can’t talk himself out of it. Besides, most people are equally as bad, because all of us would rather bad things happen to other people.

Frank is almost attacked by Morgan one last time before the end of practice, but he swerves out of the way in time, causing Morgan to hit the wall painfully, and this pisses him off quite greatly. It’s like waving a red flag in front of a bull, it only makes him angrier, and Morgan angrier than his usual eternally venomous self is a terrifying sight to behold.

Eventually, and very thankfully, Coach declares practice to be over, and excuses the team to the locker room. Frank is very glad to be leaving, so that he can put some ice on the bruise in his ribs, and then lie around in his bead for an hour moaning about how hard his life is. This is going to be a hard couple of weeks, and to make the past few weeks any worse than they already were is an achievement itself. 

Frank doesn’t get to leave immediately, however, because Gerard beckons Frank over to him with a wave of his hand. Frank sighs a little bit, fairly sure that he can guess what it is Gerard is going to want to talk with him about. Frank skates over to where Gerard is, standing against the glass in front of rows and rows of seats. Frank stops so that he stands directly opposite Gerard, who is about a foot taller than him when he’s standing in the bleachers, as opposed to the usual three inches he is when they’re both on the ground.

“Frank, is there any particular reason Morgan is trying to kill you?” Gerard asks him and Frank just sighs, lifting up his shoulders. He obviously knows why, and so does Gerard, he just doesn’t want to have to say it outloud.

“He thinks I’m a communist,” Frank replies, and Gerard frowns, because apparently this isn’t the time for jokes. 

“Frank,” Gerard says in the tone of a mother scolding her child. 

“I don’t know, Gerard,” Frank says. “He’s going to go after everyone on the team until he can weasel out the bubble-blowing baby. It was only a matter of time until he came to me, and honestly, I’m surprised that it took him so long.”

“Frank, you’re not taking this as seriously as you should be,” Gerard says, and Frank groans, turning his head to see that everyone but him has already left the ice, and he’s going to be the last one to get to the locker room, which is going to suck. 

“Gerard, I’m not going to let him get to me,” Frank shrugs. “He’s just a dick who’s being his usual dick self. He’ll get bored eventually, and move onto someone else. Just be thankful it’s not Mikey he’s after anymore.”

“Frank, all the players matter to me,” Gerard replies, leaving out the part where he wants to say ‘especially you.’ Gerard wasn’t as scared for Mikey as he is for Frank, and it’s not because he cares more for Frank than his brother, because that simply isn’t true. He just doesn’t believe Morgan was ever really going to hurt Mikey, because Morgan knows the ramifications for that would be greater than anything else he could possibly do. In Morgan’s eyes, Frank means nothing at all to him, or at least, far less. Frank is in quite a bit more danger because of that.

“I’ll be fine,” Frank assures him.

“You could get hurt. Morgan already dislikes you more than he usually hates people, so you’re probably going to get it worse than Mikey and Brendon both.”

“Brendon is fine, so is Mikey. Besides, I’m a big boy, Gerard, I can handle it.”

“I’m not trying to say you’re not strong, I’m trying to tell you that Morgan scares me. I am scared that something bad is going to happen to you,” Gerard says, and images flash in his head, each worse than the last. Gerard doesn’t want to think so narrowly, but there’s always the possibility that Frank will be so injured he won’t be able to play for a portion or even the rest of the season. Frank matters more to him than hockey, but still, that concern is there, lingering in the back of Gerard’s mind like a fly buzzing around his ear. 

“Well, look on the bright side, Gerard,” Frank says. “If something bad does happen to me, you’ll finally have your reasoning to kick Morgan off the team.”

“That’s not funny, and you know that. I don’t want you hurt, because I do care a lot about you Frank. Not just as a player, but as a friend.” And as something more. “And even if that does happen, if Morgan and you are both off the team, then we cannot win anything. You’re our best player, and as much as I hate it, he’s our second best. We can survive without him, but we cannot survive without you. If both of you are gone, we might as well throw in the towel now. If that’s the case, then so be it, it’s just a game, but I don’t want you to get hurt in the first place.”

“So, what do you want me to do? Quit the team on the off chance he’s going to mortally wound me? That’s not going to happen, Gerard. If he’s going to injure me to an extent that I can’t play, I want to be on the team so that you’ll have justification to kick him off. I’ll lose in any event, but if I’m going to lose, then I’m taking Morgan down with me.”

“Frank, I’m just scared for you,” Gerard says, in a tone that shows Frank his weakness in a way that he’s never seen it before. Gerard looks on the verge of actually breaking down, and Frank doesn’t know how to handle that. He wants to hold Gerard, kiss him and tell him everything will be alright. Of course, it would be a lie, because Frank doesn’t know if anything is going to be alright. He’s hopeful at the very least. Hope does nothing. Hope just gives people unrealistic expectations. 

“Don’t worry yourself too much before anything has even happened,” Frank says. “I’ll be careful, I promise, okay? Just tell yourself everything will be alright and it will be.” Oh, how wrong a person can be.

By the time that he’s finished talking with Gerard, Frank knows he’s already going to be the last one in the locker room. He doesn’t like leaving Gerard, he hates the departure, it always has. He gives Gerard one last small smile of encouragement before they part ways, tries to calm him down, even though all Gerard has to respond to the smile with is a worried face, with scrunched up eyebrows. 

Frank is then heading to the locker room, his feet starting to cramp from having been in skates too long. His feet always hurt if he tries to stand on his skates for long periods of time, there’s very little support in a skate for just standing or walking, which is why you need to constantly be in motion when you’re on the ice. 

Frank makes his way into the locker room, only a few stragglers left behind, no one that Frank cares particularly for. Morgan is still there, though, along with his goon, so Frank makes the decision to hurry and get changed as fast as he can. He wants to steer clear of them as much as he possibly can. Gerard may be a little bit too worrisome, but that doesn’t mean that Frank’s not in some amount of danger.

Frank keeps his back away from everyone. Trying to get changed as quickly as he possibly can becomes more and more critical as feet patter away towards the exit. Frank doesn’t want to be left alone with Morgan, he’s sure the results of it would be catastrophic at best. He doesn’t want to be alone at all, actually. He feels much less safe when he’s by himself. Right now, he is, because Pete, Mikey, and everyone else are all already gone. They probably didn’t realize they were abandoning Frank, and he’s not angry with them for that, he just longs for them, any of them. He sends out a message with his heart hoping that someone will return.

Frank pulls his clothes on so fast that his shirt is actually inside out, but he doesn’t care. His heartbeat has started racing, and all of a sudden it feels like he’s in a horror movie, battling against a clock, and when his time runs out, he’ll be brutally murdered with a chainsaw, or hacksaw, or something else equally as painful and cliché. The man behind the hockey mask will ultimately be Morgan.

Frank doesn’t see it coming when it happens, he doesn’t even hear the sound of Morgan creeping up on him, because he’s too distracted in his own thoughts to pay him any mind. He kind of thought that Morgan left, knowing someone else was still in the room, but he assumed, or maybe hoped, that it wasn’t Morgan.

All Frank knows is that one minute he’s standing there, shirt and pants on, and getting ready to pull on his shoes and socks, when all of a sudden, his head is being jammed hard and painfully into the locker in front of him. It comes out of nowhere, completely unexpected, and it sends Frank spiraling down to the floor, as he’s not entirely sure what’s just happened or what to do about it. It dizzies him, as most head injuries do, which is why he can’t prevent falling to the ground, giving him a sense of déjà vu. 

Like before, he’s unable to stop his fall with his hands, which sends his head to hit the bottom edge of the locker, which is sharp, and digs into the already pained spot where he’d just been pushed.

Frank isn’t entirely aware what’s happening, it’s that kind of pain which takes you out of your surroundings entirely, and for several moments he doesn’t know where he is or what just happened. It doesn’t occur to him that someone has pushed him, as his eyes have gone temporarily white as the pounding starts to thrum up in his head, the makings of what is sure to be a migraine to end all migraines. 

Frank raises a hand to his head, tries to right himself, regain his balance even though he’s flat on his ass on the locker room floor. He blinks a few times, tries to regain his ability to see, and the world starts to come back into view when he sees Morgan standing over him, his dark, ominous form like a vampire in the night. 

His head is in unimaginable pain, the small blows to it having done their fair share in messing his whole head up, and he’s genuinely considering whether he’s even going to be able to stand up, he might even be in a concussive state, when Morgan jumps down, and pushes him to the ground by the back of his head. His face smashes to the dirty, smelly locker room floor, which Frank would probably gag at if he weren’t so focused on the fact that he’s about to be beat the fuck up.

Frank feels Morgan’s cold, clammy hands on his wrists, and feels them being pinned down, but doesn’t know what to make of it, because he’s still groggy from the fall. 

Then, Frank feels Morgan’s elbow as it jams into his neck, completely cutting off his airway in a startling display of brutishness. Frank’s not sure why this is happening, but he supposes that he knew it was inevitable. Gerard’s worries were more than accurate. Morgan is going to beat him up, just like his attitude has been threatening to do for the last several weeks. He’s going to beat Frank to a pulp, leave him bruised and battered on the locker room floor, and there’s nothing he’s going to be able to do about it. 

Morgan is built like a train. He’s got hefty shoulders, and nearly a foot in height on Frank, but Frank’s short to begin with, so it’s not saying much. Morgan’s also colossally stronger, the kind of strong that doesn’t happen overnight, but is built up to for years and years of protein shakes and weight lifting instead of studying. Frank knows there’s no way he can escape Morgan’s grip. His oxygen is cut off, his head is dizzy and painful, and both of his hands are pinned down by one of Morgan’s massive ape-like hands. He’s helpless.

Frank just resigns himself to his ‘punishment’ because to some extent, he thinks he might deserve a black eye or two. It’s his fault that this is happening to him, if he’d never done that article, this surely wouldn’t be happening. Frank’s just going to have to live with it. Yeah, it’s going to hurt, like a fucking lot, but it’s nothing he won’t be able to get through.

He is slightly concerned that Morgan might break a bone, however, which would be less than ideal. A broken bone would take him out of the game for six or more weeks, and that’s not something he can just be _okay_ with. Now to be fair, if Morgan breaks something he might have grounds to get the guy kicked off the team, but like Gerard had said, what’s the good in that if Frank can’t play either?

Frank’s starting to get worried, because it’s been about thirty seconds now and Morgan’s elbow is still choking him, with no air at all for him to get through to his lungs, not a single space for him to breathe any of it in. He thinks he must be turning blue, as he attempts to flail about for the will to push Morgan off, but he just can’t. He’s exhausted from practice, his head is pounding, the lack of air coming through is only amplifying both of those things. 

At long last, Morgan removes his elbow from Frank’s neck, and he starts gasping, making these loud, painful noises as he gasps air down his throat, suddenly appreciating just how pleasant and amazing it feels to breathe. He takes his breaths in deeply, but he’s only got a moment to spare, before Morgan is pushing his head down onto the floor again. He’s pushed face first into the ground, still trying to gasp air into his lungs so he gets a mouthful of the floor, which he spits out the best that he can.

He tries to use the new position to his advantage, tries to get his arms underneath him to push himself up and onto his feet so that he can run the fuck away, but he doesn’t have the chance to before Morgan is sitting on him, knees pressed into his back. Frank doesn’t know what he’s doing at this point, other than being his vindictive, evil self, but he knows that he doesn’t like it. He turns his head to the side, his lungs still burning, and he tries to choke down more of the air that he so desperately needs, as he prepares for whatever the worst is, which he’s sure is yet to come. 

It hits Frank like a meteor crashing to earth with the force and velocity to wipe out an entire nation. It’s an earth shattering, sucker punch but far worse. It’s all Frank can do to just squirm and try desperately in his last moments of strength to escape.

His heart rate picks up to a speed that he can’t bear, and he tries oh so desperately to push Morgan the fuck off, but to no avail. Morgan is stronger than him even when Frank doesn’t feel like he’s been through a garbage disposal. It’s all Frank can do to muster up a scream of unparalleled terror and desperation. He screams with every amount of energy he has in him. It’s the most frightened, terrified scream that’s ever been made.

No one is there to hear it. 

Frank begins to hyperventilate, tries to scream again, but Morgan just grabs one of Frank’s socks from the ground, stuffing it into his mouth, and nearly choking him. He tries to spit it out, but it’s too far in his mouth to get at without the use of his hands. He continues to make relentless noises of fear, and horror, but they come out so muffled by the sock that he might as well let them go. 

He doesn’t. 

Not throughout any of it.

He keeps screaming into his sock.

Keeps squirming.

Keeps trying to get away.

Keeps on resisting. 

But it doesn’t work.

None of it works.

It’s pointless. 

Futile.

There’s nothing he can do. 

Things just keep getting worse.

Eventually, he just stops.

Gives in.

Frank puts his head to the ground, clenches his eyes together, and just allows his entire world to blow up. 

Everything’s falling apart.

Breaking. 

Shattering.

Dying.

Nothing.

Throughout it all, Frank would love to say his mind goes blank. He’d love to say that the trauma is too great, and that his mind shuts itself down so that he doesn’t have to experience it. But that’s not true. He’s acutely, vividly aware. The entire time. Everything is clear as day. 

 

Morgan leaves Frank lying there on the locker room floor. He leaves the shell of what was once Frank. Because Frank doesn’t think he’s here anymore. He doesn’t think at all. He’s just, sort of, _there_. Not really though. He’s not aware. Doesn’t want to be. He wants to escape. Wants to escape to the nothing of the world behind his eyelids. Wants them to grow so heavy that they guide him somewhere else. Forever. Wants to be carried away.

He vaguely hears the sound of footsteps as Morgan walks away, hears the sound as it echoes off the walls of the room around him, and Frank doesn’t know what he’s supposed to feel now. Relieved that it’s over? No, he doesn’t feel relief. He’s depressed that he’s not dead. Death is honestly the only way for any of this to be okay, because at least then, he wouldn’t be stuck here on the locker room floor feeling like _this_.

Ten minutes pass and he doesn’t move, doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t do anything. He just lies there. He just feels it all at once, which makes it feel like nothing at all. Eventually feelings start to come back though. Emotions begin to return, his limbs all begin to reform. He wishes that none of it had to ever come back.

Frank becomes aware of the fact that he’s lying on the floor. He starts to become aware of the fact that he’s feeling many different emotions, and all of them are bad. They’re beyond bad. There’s no word for the depravity of how he feels. There’s many different words that come close, though. He feels used, disgusting, cold, depressed, numb, shattered, tired, dirty, and most of all _broken_. 

He is broken, though, he feels like vermin. He feels like the absolute scum of the earth. He’s dirty. He’s cold. He’s heartbroken. He’s never felt this unearthly gross or decimated before. This is how it must feel to be dead. This is what it feels like to have your corpse buried deep in the ground, being devoured by worms. 

Why would he be forced to live after this? Why does he have to be cursed to live on? Why didn’t Morgan just kill him, because that would be so much preferable to the feelings that Frank is now forced to deal with. 

He looks around him, not even having noticed that his head is against the floor. He picks himself up a little from the ground. If it weren’t for the fact that he feels like this, he’d probably be disgusted by how gross the floor is, but at this point, things can’t get any worse. There is no way for anything from this point to be worse than it already is.

Then he looks at the ground, sees blood there, and he lifts his hand to his head, feeling wetness on the back of it. It stings when he touches it, but he can’t remember getting the deep gash there. It must have happened during… during…

Frank doesn’t care about his head, though. It’s not a big deal, it’s just a little blood, it’s nothing.

He doesn’t cry. Frank doesn’t have it in him to cry. He feels far worse than the benchmark for tears. There is not enough life left in him right now to muster up crying. He just lifts himself up from the floor, slowly, somberly. 

He fixes his clothes, and when he’s pulling his pants up, it sinks in, and he’s practically struck to the ground again. He’s hit with the pain of remembering. Somehow, it’s worse than what had actually happened. Frank feels himself drop to the ground again, only seconds after having stood up. He hits his head again on a locker as he falls into a sitting position against it, but he doesn’t care. It’s nothing to him, he might be fucking concussed but he doesn’t care, that doesn’t matter. That’s not what’s important. Nothing is important at all.

That is when the tears hit him, he’d been too distraught a minute ago to allow them to come, but now he’s sunk even further. There’s levels to these sorts of things: tears, too sad for tears, and then so sad that tears are inescapable, and Frank has sunk that low. 

Then he’s weeping, practically wailing, and he wants someone to stop him, he wants someone to make it go away. He wants his mom, honestly, he wants her to tell him that everything is going to be okay, even though he knows it’s not going to be, because he knows nothing will ever be okay again. He’ll never be the same anymore, he’s going to live with this forever, and right now, the pain is at its peak, but it can only get worse from here. 

It’s funny sometimes how you can fill an emotion to the brink, have so much of it that it becomes infinite, and yet somehow, still expand upon it. Expand on an infinitive. Impossible, yet somehow frequent, and common. 

Frank stays like that, on the locker room floor, for over an hour. He’s unable to move, unable to do anything but feel pain and feel gross, dirty, unwashed, used. It takes him past an hour, another twenty or so minutes, before he’s finally able to stand up and drag himself to the showers. He can’t stay in these clothes any longer, can’t allow himself to be _contaminated_ for even one more second. He needs to wash it off, wash off every trace of _him_ that might be there, and then some. 

He wants to scrub three layers of skin off, but being without a sponge, he’s only able to scrub until his bar of soap all but disappears, becoming so small that he can’t hold it in his hand anymore before it slips away.

But still he feels dirty. He doesn’t feel any cleaner than he had before showering. He doesn’t feel any less dirty. It’s like he’s been branded, permanently scarred, not just mentally, because he knows he’s that too, but it feels like it’s visible. Everyone will be able to see what Morgan did to him. Everyone will know.

He has to keep scrubbing. He scrubs, with just his hands. Tries to get everything off, until finally, he starts to scratch, maybe if he claws the skin off no one will be able to tell. Frank is in the middle of furiously clawing the skin of his thigh when he realizes that he’s leaving gashes. He looks down, seeing blood dripping down his legs and into the drain, and there’s some blood coming from some parts on his arm that he’d scratched as well.

He hadn’t realized he’d even been hurting himself. He had been so desperate to remove the evidence that he didn’t realize he was tearing himself apart in the process. Frank sinks to his knees again.

He’s a mess. He doesn’t even know what to do with himself. He sits under the shower head, feeling it sting his skin all over.

He wants everything to stop. Not necessarily to die, but for everything that hurts to stop hurting. He wants it all to go away. Wants the world to just stop turning for a moment, even if just for him to catch his breath.

But he doesn’t think he’s ever going to be catching it again.

Frank peels himself from the floor, turns off the shower, and then slowly, very slowly, he puts on the spare clothes he leaves in his locker. He doesn’t even want to touch the clothes he’d been wearing. Doesn’t want to ever have to look at them or remember them again. He stuffs his hand in a spare sock, scrubs the small patch of dried blood he’d left on the floor with his used clothes, before throwing the clothes, including the sock he’d used to touch them, all into the trash can. He’s tempted to set the damn thing on fire, but it’s too much work. He just wants to go home.

But then Frank remembers that he is home. This is where he lives. And this is his skating rink. This is supposed to be his favorite place in the entire world. His favorite place ever. And yesterday, it was. Now he knows he’ll never be able to look at it the same again. 

All of a sudden, its paramount that he’s away from this place. He needs to be as far away as he can possibly get from the rink, so he starts hurrying out, feeling like a hobble, because when he walks, and it kills him almost more than it had before, he can feel Morgan. He actually feels what Morgan did to him, and it’s not in his mind, it’s an actual, real pain. It almost stops him multiple times before he’s even able to get to the door, because he’s close to crying again. 

Frank needs to get away though, so despite the fact that he has to slow down and walk rather than run, he exits the rink as quickly as he can. It feels like a limp, the entire walk. It feels like he’s dragging himself.

There’s no one out and about, or at least, no one that he can see. Frank doesn’t know what time it is, but it must be very early in the morning by now, it’s certainly past the time when it’s acceptable for people to still be out, especially on a Monday of all days. 

Frank makes it to his dorm, unlocks the door for himself hurriedly, and then rushes through the halls, desperate to collapse into his bed so that he can be in pain in peace and quiet, feel safe. Well, kind of. 

Morgan is still on this campus. He’s probably sleeping right now, in his dorm, somewhere, feeling proud of himself while Frank is here feeling like death would be a mercy. Frank’s never going to feel safe in this place again. He’ll probably never feel safe anywhere again. 

It sinks in like a cold lump in his throat, that nothing is ever going to be the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am really sorry, genuinely I am.


	27. The After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything sucks.

Frank lies in his bed, staring up at the ceiling above him. He looks at the cold, blank, poorly painted ridges where wall meets ceiling, trying desperately to remove the events of the night from his mind. He longs, hopes, even prays for sleep. Sleep doesn’t come.

Frank looks at the bright blue digital numbers of the clock on Ray’s bedside table, or rather, the bedside box he uses as a table. They flicker by slowly, like a turtle in slow motion. The world seems surreal around him, and he’s not entirely sure that he’s living within it. 

It feels like he’s fallen out of a movie, into some other reality. It’s like he’s stepped foot into a world completely foreign to him. He half expects that this is the reality at the other side of a mirror, that he has somehow switched places with an exact copy of himself. This surely can’t be him, these can’t be his limbs, his thoughts, his memories. 

This is his, though. This is his world. These are his aches, his pains, his heart stopping trauma, which he has unfortunately lived long enough to experience, and it’s not fair. Not a bit of it is fair. If Frank could personify this feeling, it’s like reliving the instant you get hit by a train relentlessly. Like every time you get hit, the train is still coming, to hit you again, and it’s an eternal torment, one that won’t ever leave him. Frank feels like Sisyphus, every time he pushes the boulder up the hill, it just falls back down. Pain just keeps coming. 

What has happened to him? What Morgan did to him… it doesn’t really _happen_. It doesn’t happen to people in real life. It’s just a concept, a thing to be dreaded and to grieve over, but it doesn’t ever happen to _you_. It just can’t. It’s like cancer, it happens to people you know but never to you. And everyone who it’s ever happened to has thought the same thing. 

And the pain is too harsh. It’s not just physical or emotional, the feeling of being _used_ , it takes up his entire body, an overwhelming sensation of disgust and uncleanliness and filth. It’s disgusting. Frank could scrub away every last piece of skin he has and still be unclean. He can even feel the marks on him where he’d tried to do just that, dug his nails deep into his own flesh, trying to peel away what happened, but it hadn’t worked. If anything, now he feels those marks and it’s like being violated all over again. Like the pain in those self-inflicted marks carries all of the weight of Morgan’s deeds in them. 

All over his body is pain. Every inch of him hurts, especially his head, with a pounding headache that makes every other headache he’s had before it look like brain freeze. His skin hurts, his bones hurt, his legs are sore, everything is sore, it all just aches. 

How is he supposed to go on? How is he supposed to feel? What is he supposed to do? Frank doesn’t know. He hasn’t a clue.

It doesn’t seem like there’s a way to move forward from this point. The unspeakable has happened, but now what? Does he just mope for the rest of his life? Does he lie here feeling like dirt eternally? Maybe he’s supposed to brush this off. He doesn’t know what he can do other than mope, at this stage. It’s only been a few hours, he knows that, but it feels like it’s been years. It also doesn’t feel like it’s something he can possibly get over. It’s an impossible hurdle. There’s no way for him to just get over it. 

He sits up in bed, his head brushing against the ceiling, but he doesn’t care. He knows he won’t get any sleep. He knows he may never sleep again. He can practically feel the fear. Behind a locked door, in a locked building, inside a dorm halfway across campus from _him_ , it still feels like he’s right outside the door. 

Frank is afraid that when he closes his eyes, he’ll see Morgan. He’s afraid that when he tries to sleep, all it will bring him is a shadow of tonight. 

Where can he possibly go? When Frank can’t sleep at this hour, he’d usually go to the ice rink, but he can’t go there. He may never be able to go there again. That’s where it happened. The walls have absorbed it, all he’ll be able to see and hear is Morgan. He can’t go there. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to again. He doesn’t even want to think about the ice rink, it chills him too much.

Frank thinks about what he wants, what he needs, what he so desperately desires. All he can think about is sleep, but then the concept of sleep chills him, sickens him even. He can’t sleep, he can’t shut his brain up from the tizzy of irrational thoughts, of the fear and the sickening feeling of what happened.

Frank doesn’t even think he wants to see Gerard. He doesn’t think there’s a soul on the planet who he wants to see. Not Pete, not Patrick, not Mikey, or Hayley, or even Gerard. There’s one person he wants to see, though. One person he wants to talk to. His mom.

But there’s the hitch. He can’t see her. She’s an hour away, but that’s not the reason. His mother is overprotective, overbearing to put it modestly. If she knew, even suspected… Frank would probably never be allowed out of her sight ever again. He loves his mom with all of his heart, and if he loves her that much, she must love him tenfold. It’s nice knowing that, but it makes his options limited. She just can’t know, he’d put everything at risk by telling her. His hockey, his friends, school, and probably his entire life.

Still though, he craves her like nothing else. He wants to be near his mom, to see her, or to hear her voice. He wants her to hold him and make the world seem less evil, like she always does. He wants her to make him cookies and sit on the couch with him watching Disney movies.

But he knows that he can’t muster up the energy to lie to her. It would take too much out of him, too much that he no longer even possesses. As much as he wants her, and as much as he wishes he could make up an excuse for why he’s sad, he knows it wouldn’t work. She’d see right through him anyway.

No, Frank’s alone right now. There’s no one to see, no one to talk to, nowhere to turn. He just wants his mother, but he can’t have that. At least not right now. Maybe in the morning. Maybe if he finds the composure to lie to her. Tell her he’s stressed about exams, or that studying is getting the better of him. He just can’t tell her about this.

He can’t tell anyone. 

It’s as though someone has dropped an enormous boulder, an entire asteroid quite possibly, on Frank’s shoulders, and he’s now being forced to keep it a secret. There’s a mass of weight crushing him, several tons at least, but he can’t tell anyone. He’s being squished right in front of their eyes, but they don’t know.

What would they say if he did? He’s a boy. He’s a hockey player, an athlete, in his prime. He’s not exactly weak, and he’s not exactly defenseless. But looking back on it, it feels like he just lied there. That he didn’t fight back quite hard enough, that he didn’t push back. He didn’t do all he could have to have stopped it. He can’t even recall saying no.

He should have pushed Morgan off. He shouldn’t have let him win. He should’ve screamed louder. He shouldn’t have been there in the first place. If he had only waited, or gotten dressed with the rest of the guys. If he had never given that interview at all.

Then Frank realizes exactly what he’s doing to himself. He’s blaming himself. He’s blaming himself for something that clearly isn’t his fault. He didn’t want it, and that’s as plain as things get. He can’t have been at fault when it wasn’t him that caused this. He may not have said no with his words, but he clearly wasn’t asking for anything.

Frank is victim blaming his own damn self. This wasn’t his fault, and he does know that, very universally within himself, he is aware of that. But it’s very hard not to see all of his own mistakes that led him to where he is now. He shouldn’t have given that interview, and he knows that. He shouldn’t have been in that locker room alone, he knows that as well. He just shouldn’t have been in this situation.

But he _was_ in that locker room. He _did_ give that interview. Neither of those things was an invitation. Neither of those things warrant what happened to him. Morgan is still the one to blame, still the one at fault. 

As much as Frank knows this to be true, it doesn’t provide any solace. Even if it wasn’t his fault, Frank was still there. Even if he’s not to blame, he still has to carry what happened to him. It isn’t his fault, and he does know that, deep down inside, but that doesn’t change what happened. It doesn’t make it go away, and it doesn’t make the pain stop. Not being at fault doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

It doesn’t make Frank feel any cleaner. Frank was in the shower for nearly an hour, so long that any ordinary shower would’ve turned cold. Sitting here, lying in bed, he still feels like Morgan is on him, everywhere. He could shower some more, but he’s sure it would do nothing. The feeling of him would still be there, the smell of him too. He smelled disgusting, like overused cologne that didn’t smell nice to begin with. He sees, feels, smells Morgan. Frank can’t hear him, though, because all he can hear is a perpetual ringing in his ears that surely hadn’t been there before. 

Frank doesn’t want to think about any of it, but he can’t help it. First, it’s the way his elbow had dug into Frank’s neck, choking him, stopping the air from entering his lungs. Then it’s the way Morgan had held his hands together, and Frank had been too weak to push him off. He can feel Morgan’s knees pressing into his back. He can feel Morgan… he can _feel_ him…

Frank’s insides burst like a balloon with too much air, as a swell of tears come rushing out. He hides himself under the sheets, getting his heavy comforter over his head, and pressing his face into his pillow. He doesn’t want Ray to hear him crying, but he knows that he can’t help himself from crying either. 

Cocooned in his blankets, Frank doesn’t realize that the world is pressing down on him. Frank’s never been claustrophobic before, but right now, being so cut off only reminds him of Morgan pressing him down to the floor. The hot breath from his mouth being unable to escape from the blankets echoes the heat of the locker room. Even though it’s long since been washed away, he can smell Morgan’s cologne on him. 

Suddenly, it’s like it’s happening all over again, and it’s not just a memory, or a ghost feeling. It’s not fake in the slightest within Frank’s mind. He might as well be in that locker room right now, because he feels it, he feels everything, and he recounts the memory of it like it’s a film on the inside of his eyelids. It’s not just a memory, it’s actually happening to Frank all over again.

Frank can feel his heart racing like it had been at the time that it happened. He can feel his entire body sweating, everything going into slow motion, and gradually, everything becomes worse until he’s actually biting down on his pillow, either trying to scream or trying not to, but he can’t tell which. He can’t breathe, or if he can, his breaths are coming in too short and fast for him to notice them. Everything is black, everything hurts, and it’s getting worse by the second.

Frank opens his eyes, and he starts flailing, realizing he has the freedom of his arms. Frank waves his limbs about until he’s able to pull the covers away, and looking around, he starts to breathe again when he realizes that it’s not actually happening. It’s just a flashback, he’s not there anymore. He’s in his bed, he’s sweating bullets, but he’s safe, for the most part.

He does feel rather sick though. Frank feels a heavy weight in his stomach, and he’s aware of what it implies. Frank jumps out of his bed with an incredibly loud thud, but it’s not enough to make him waste any time by using the ladder instead. He runs toward the door, pulling it open and then sprinting through it, not bothering to close it behind him, because he doesn’t have the time to spare. Frank hurdles towards the bathroom in the dark corridor, with not a peep to be heard from any crevice. 

Frank clambers over to a stall, just making it in time before he’s sick into the toilet bowl below him. He falls to his knees, resting his back against the stall door, tasting acid in his mouth. His entire body feels like he’s got a flu, like he’s at the worst peak of being sick, the part that makes you feel like death itself, and Frank is pretty familiar with that feeling, as he’s had the flu enough. 

Frank lets his head rest against the wall behind him, waiting for the pounding to stop before he stands up. He needs a mint, that’s for sure, but his head feels like it’ll explode if he moves another inch, because the headache that courses through him is a stampeding rhino.

The pounding of the pain in his head synchronizes with the beat of his heart, with every downstroke bringing with it more searing pain, which makes Frank all the more miserable.

It occurs to Frank now that he must have a concussion. This is definitely how it must feel to have a concussion. He should probably go see a doctor.

Frank dwells on the idea for a spell, before deciding that seeing a doctor right now is probably his only step forward at all. He knows he can’t get to sleep, and there’s no one he can talk to, so his best option is to take care of the very obvious head trauma that he’s undergone. He should take care of it now before things get any worse, which Frank can’t imagine being possible, but if there’s one thing that horror movies have taught him, it’s that things can always get worse. 

Frank attempts to stand up, but his headache combined with the ringing in his ears make it impossible. He has to stop, take a breather, and then pull himself up, using the wall against him for support. Frank is very slow, and very groggy as he walks back to his room. He sees the wide-open door, but there’s no one else awake at this hour. He peers into the room to see Ray exactly where he’d been when Frank ran out. Frank walks over to his bathroom supplies, pulling out some mouthwash, and swigging it around to get rid of the acidic taste in his mouth. 

Frank changes his clothes again, he doesn’t want to be wearing this, everything he has on was in his locker when it happened. He doesn’t want to be so close to that event, even in his clothes.

Frank pulls on a new outfit, one that isn’t very trendy or flattering, but he doesn’t care. He just needs to make it to the clinic which is fairly close. It’s so close that it might even be on campus technically. It’s a private clinic; there’s no school owned hospital nearby, as Armstrong’s not a medical school by any means. The nearest hospital is about ten miles down the road, but Frank doesn’t need a hospital, he just needs a doctor. It doesn’t have to be an adventurous outing, he just needs to make sure he’s alright. He knows he’s not alright, to know he’s not dying is a better way to phrase it. 

Frank finds his way to the clinic well enough, though his head and vision are making it rather difficult. He can hardly walk in a straight line because of the aching and the blurred vision, so he knows he must look drunk, but at least if anyone stops him he’ll totally pass a breathalyzer. It takes a long while to get there, because has to stop and stand against the wall every so often when the pain of his head gets to be too much.

Once he finds the place, he’s given a huge dictionary sized stack of paperwork to fill out which is a little inconsiderate since he has a fucking concussion. Thirty minutes, and a worsening headache later, Frank hands the paperwork to the woman at the front desk, and is told that someone will help in only a moment. So, obviously, he sits in the waiting room for another fifty minutes before he’s called back by a tired looking nurse who’s clearly been here for about fifteen hours.

Then, after taking preliminary information, she leaves Frank in a small room for another twenty minutes as he waits for the doctor to arrive. The worst part about it is that Frank’s head and vision are too poor for him to play apps on his phone, so he literally has to sit with his own thoughts for twenty minutes, which is the worst thing he could possibly be forced to do on a day like this.

As much as he tries to put the thoughts off, they return to him. It’s like he’s being haunted, having nightmares. Only he’s awake. Sleep probably won’t take these memories away from him. Sleep might just make things worse. If Frank is reliving it all in his head while awake, he can’t imagine how much his brain is going to taunt him with it when he’s asleep. 

Frank can’t cast the thoughts away. Once they’re in his head, it’s hard to remove them. It’s impossible to stop thinking about something by telling yourself to stop thinking about it. Frank wishes that forgetting was simple, but it’s not. Maybe if he’s lucky this concussion will give him amnesia. Or better yet, maybe he’ll just become comatose. 

Frank is startled away from his thoughts when a kind looking older lady walks into his room, after a soft knock. Frank straightens up, looking at the woman as she enters, hoping that she’ll be able to help him in anyway, because honestly anything would be better than what he’s going through now.

“Hi, Frank, my name is Doctor Whitcomb.” Frank exchanges the mandatory pleasantries that are outrageously annoying to him, before she starts to ask the real questions. “Would you summarize for me why you’re here today?”

“I, well, I hit my head, and I think, I mean I don’t know, it feels like this is what a concussion would be like, so I don’t know,” Frank says, rambling, because he doesn’t want to presume he knows what’s wrong, considering he’s not the doctor. “I’ve got this bad headache, and I’m pretty dizzy, and nauseous, and just a whole bunch of unpleasant stuff, really.”

“Alright,” she says, writing something down on her papers in front of her. “Can you tell me how you injured your head?”

“I,” Frank starts, before wincing, because he doesn’t know how to respond to that. He doesn’t want to admit the truth, but this is a doctor and she’s probably the only person in the world who can help him. She’s also the only person in the world who Frank could tell and know that she’ll keep his secret. 

“I just bumped my head,” Frank admits finally.

The doctor frowns, looking up at him, “I’m going to need you to be more specific. What did you hit your head on? Was it caused by a fall, or were you hit with something?”

“I just, I hit my head,” Frank says.

“Can you remember how?” she asks.

“Yes,” Frank says. 

“But you won’t tell me?” Doctor Whitcomb asks. 

“Uh… no,” Frank says, but he says it like a question. He feels embarrassed not answering her question, after all, she’s a doctor. She’s a professional and Frank is making her job harder. But he doesn’t want to tell her, and if she knew why, she wouldn’t wonder why he doesn’t want to tell her. 

The doctor sighs, but she doesn’t push it any further. She writes a couple more things down, then asks, “How long ago did you injure yourself?”

“I’m not sure,” Frank admits, because he doesn’t know what time practice got out, doesn’t know when he made it into the locker room, doesn’t know how long he spent in there, and he doesn’t know what time it is now either. 

“You don’t know or you don’t remember?” she asks him, emphasizing the difference between the two, but Frank doesn’t really get why. 

“I don’t know, I haven’t checked the clock in several hours,” Frank says, and she seems to be happier with this response than Frank would have expected. 

She then has Frank stand up, tests his balance, and coordination, neither of which is really at its peak, probably because he’s dizzy and in pain. She writes more notes, before having Frank sit down again. Doctor Whitcomb then asks Frank a couple of weird questions that don’t seem to have anything to do with his head injury at all. She asks him how many fingers she’s holding up, gives him a simple equation, and then asks him to recall how many fingers she’d been holding up. Frank feels like an eight-year-old who’s being made fun of by a nine-year-old who think they’re smarter than him.

“Your memory and problem solving both seem okay,” the doctor says. “I’ll have you do a few more tests, though, just so we can make sure.”

Frank sighs, and nods. Doctor Whitcomb disappears through the door, and comes back not long after. Frank is subjected to an increasingly aggravating number of memory and problem-solving tests, most of which seem to have actually been designed for a five-year-old. When Frank passes with flying colors, he suspects that he might have been overreacting when he called this a concussion. 

The tests don’t take long, because after only a couple, Doctor Whitcomb says, “your memory, language skills, and problem solving don’t seem effected in the slightest. So, there’s your good news, you don’t have a concussion.”

Frank doesn’t know if that makes him feel better or worse. If he had a concussion, at least he wouldn’t feel so bad about the fact that his head and senses are on fire. He would have a heck of a good excuse for missing school and practice, and everything else. But on the other hand, not having a concussion means that he’s healthier, and not in as much risk of internal bleeding or other such life risking problems. Not like Frank would be unwelcoming of death.

“Okay,” Frank nods, “but that implies that there is bad news?”

“Well, you do still have a head injury,” she says. “That doesn’t change just because we know it’s not a concussion. The headache is likely a cause of the dizziness, but I can write you a prescription for some painkillers, which should take the headache in a couple days at the most. Headaches after head trauma are very common, but you should rest for the next few days, take things easy. Do you have anyone who can check up on you while you sleep to make sure you’re alright?”

“I have a roommate,” Frank says, nodding. She asks him to describe his headache for a little while as she determines the best prescription for the pain, and Frank sits in his chair feelings somewhat shameful. He kind of feels like he’s wasting her time.

He needs to be here, though, and he knows that. As much as it may suck, and as much as he hates being here, he needed to do this. It’s not a concussion, that’s good news, even if he doesn’t see it that way. It means he can still play hockey, because a concussion would likely take him out for at least a month, and if he’s out for a month, that’s an entire season lost for the team, because they can’t survive without him. 

But then Frank thinks about hockey. Even the thought of it makes his entire body shudder, and he feels a sick feeling in his throat like he’s going to puke again. Frank doesn’t know what’s made him feel this way, but his body has negatively reacted to the prospect of playing hockey.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” she asks. 

Frank hesitates, frowns, and closes his eyes. He knows what he should say. He can also kind of tell that she’s waiting for him to ask it. The doctor knows that something bad happened, but she probably doesn’t know what. Frank’s refusal to say what is how she knows it’s bad.

Frank should tell her; his health is on the line. His head isn’t the only thing that’s been injured. It’s crossed his mind a time or two that Morgan could have been carrying something. It’s not a thought he’s dwelled on too much, because it only forces him to relive it, but it’s something he really should call attention to. Keeping something like that a secret can only hurt him further. 

“Can, I just, like, ask you a couple questions?” Frank asks, not sure if he wants to, or how he’s going to phrase the questions he needs answered. 

“Of course,” she responds, smiling kindly at him. She’s the kind of lady that looks like your aunt. She’s got a sweet smile, and big long laugh lines growing faster than other wrinkles. She’s a got a soothing personality, so Frank doesn’t feel unwelcomed by her, but he still doesn’t want to talk about what happened. 

“If I… if I tell you about something that’s like, that’s like a crime, would you have to tell someone else?” Frank asks her, and he knows it makes him sound sketchy, but if he doesn’t admit to anything right now she can’t report him. Frank’s sure that he’s heard about patient confidentiality before, but he doesn’t know if that’s just sickness and emotions or if it also extends to crime.

“Only if I suspect you of wanting to harm yourself or others,” she says.

“So if it doesn’t involve putting other people in danger, I can tell you something and you can’t tell anyone else?” Frank asks, making sure he’s got the right idea before he goes around blabbing all of his secrets. 

“That’s correct.”

Frank takes a deep breath as he nods, “Okay, um, what if I tell you something that happened to me, would I have to like… would I have to press charges?” 

“That’s up to you,” Doctor Whitcomb says, in an empathetic voice, sounding actually concerned for Frank, which is a relief, because Frank really needs someone on his side right about now. “I can’t press charges on your behalf. If someone assaulted or injured you, you’re the one who would have to contact the police, not myself or anyone else at this clinic.”

“Okay,” Frank says, nodding, “because, like, god, fuck, okay. So like, I…” Frank finds himself unable to get the words out. He knows he needs to ask, and he knows his own health could be at risk if he doesn’t tell her what happened. 

He doesn’t know anything about Morgan. Morgan could have something that could put Frank in danger, and he needs to know if he’s actually in trouble or not. What if Morgan has an STI? What if he’s got HIV? There’s so many what if’s that he can only find the answers to if he tells someone what happened, and since his health is on the line here, he knows he does have to tell a doctor at the very least, or else he’ll risk his own safety. 

“You don’t have to tell me,” she reminds him. “Though I strongly recommend you do if you believe you might be in harm’s way.”

“I know I should, I know that,” Frank says with a solid expression on his face. He takes in several deep breaths and then closes his eyes, feeling red flow into his cheeks as he merely prepares for what he’s going to say. 

“So, like, I… I was raped.” It’s the first time Frank has used the word. He hasn’t even used it in his own brain, because he doesn’t want to own up to it. He doesn’t want to face the truth of what happened. 

Saying it out loud makes it real. Telling another person means it’s not a secret. Frank so wishes that keeping it inside him, holding it to himself, would make it less real. But he knows that’s not the truth. Even if no one knows, it still happened. He’s still a victim.

The realization of what happened, keeps coming to him, and every time, he realizes something worse. Things just keep getting worse. Things can’t get better from here. “And he-he, he like, he hit my head against the floor a few times, that’s why my head… and I just remember, I saw blood and I can’t even really remember how it got there. And when he, um, I don’t know if he-” Frank’s voice cracks and is then cut off by something painful and hard in his throat. He chokes back tears which are inevitable anyway, because saying it makes it worse. His words are spiraling out of him, in a pained voice that’s hard to listen to, “I don’t know if he used a-a condom or not, I wasn’t, I was just… I was just...”

“Alright,” Doctor Whitcomb says nodding. She looks somberly at Frank, holding a hand out for him, telling him that he can stop, and it’s not because she want’s to interrupt him, it’s because she can tell that the words are hurting him.   
“I am so sorry, Frank, I really am. First things first, I’d like to commend you for your bravery, because I know this is a very hard and emotional thing to go through. I’m not a counselor, or a therapist, but you need to know it wasn’t your fault, what happened to you. These things happen, but it’s never the victims fault, not ever. So, don’t blame yourself. I understand how hard and painful this is, and I can’t even begin to empathize with the hurt you feel. I’ve seen this so many times before, and I can honestly say, it’s harder to bear every time I hear about it, so I can’t imagine how hard it is to live through it. But you are very strong for coming here. You should know that, if you take nothing else out of this visit, know that a lot of people in your position don’t get help, and that can lead to disaster. So, I’m very glad you’re here. Even if you turn out to be completely clean, you can’t know that, and I’m glad you’re taking your health into consideration.”

Frank nods, but he holds his face in his hands as tears well up in his eyes, because he can’t bear the thought of a stranger seeing him cry. He’s an adult, his own self, in fucking college, and a hockey player for god’s sake. He’s not supposed to cry. Except Frank is in pain, and he’s fucking sad, so he’s going to cry all the fuck he wants.

“I do understand your concern, I’m glad you’re here to address it. I’m going to give you a few STI tests and exams if that’s alright with you?”

“Yes, yeah,” Frank nods, because that’s what he wants from this. He doesn’t want to call the cops or to tell anyone else, he just wants to know that he’s not going to get an infection or a disease or something worse. Frank likes to think he wants to die sometimes, especially now, but he knows he doesn’t actually, especially not of some dreadful disease he could cure or treat if he’d only have gotten treatment. He’s not going to be that idiot. Yeah, what happened to him was terrible and embarrassing, but he’ll take the terror and embarrassment over death, just this once. 

“I can’t suggest highly enough that you seek counseling. Every survivor of rape should see counseling in some form or another, whether it’s through a therapist, counselor, psychiatrist, or just a guidance counselor at your school, it’s the best thing you can do to help yourself in recovery. I’m going to recommend you to a counseling service offered through the college. If you want something more anonymous, I’ll give you a handout with some numbers you can call to get help, like the rape crisis hotline. You should talk to someone, because this is the sort of trauma that isn’t just going to go away on its own. Holding it in will not help you. With time, you can make things far worse, certain disorders can develop as a result of traumatic events like this, not the least of which being PTSD.”

“Okay,” Frank nods, though he doesn’t think he intends to follow her up on that. Frank doesn’t want anyone’s help, because he doesn’t want to admit to other people that he needs it. It’s not that he doesn’t want to be seen as weak for needing help, he just doesn’t want anyone to know what happened to him, because people knowing is the worst thing that could happen. His hockey career and life would be on the line if people were to find out. 

“I’m also going to recommend you get a rape kit,” the Doctor says, which is what really sparks Frank, and not in a good way. He feels terror at the very idea of it. That’s the sort of thing they do on SVU, a super embarrassing, and invasive hell storm that he honestly wants no part of. 

“I know who did it,” Frank says, “I don’t need you to tell me.”

“That’s not why I think you should get it,” she says, “if you choose to press charges, physical evidence will be key in the prosecution-”

“But I don’t want to press charges,” Frank says. 

“I would still recommend doing it,” she says, “it’s not fun, and if you are hesitant on the invasiveness you can feel free to decline, but if you decide in a month that you do want to press charges, that’ll be the only way you’ll have a case. If you don’t do it now, you won’t be able to do it later.”

“But I took a shower,” Frank says, “for like, an hour.”

“That will erase some physical evidence, yes, but it’s doubtful that it removed all. Especially if your attacker didn’t use protection,” she says. The statement might as well be a bucket of mud and guts over Frank’s head, because it’s like he can feel it now. He can feel Morgan on him still, even though he was sure he’d washed it all off, it’s still there. It’s like walking through a cobweb, and feeling the cobweb there hours, maybe even days later. It’s irrational, and it’s likely that the physical evidence to which Doctor Whitcomb refers is not external, and that just makes everything worse. 

Frank shakes his head, having totally forgotten about his mission not to let her see him cry, because he’s looking directly into her eyes with tears still spilling off his face. “I don’t… I don’t know.”

“It’s up to you. I would recommend it. You won’t be able to press charges at all if you don’t do it, or at least, you likely won’t see justice. But if you do the rape kit, and you decide later on that you don’t want to press chargess, it won’t be the end of the world. It is your decision, but most victims that I see come through here do have one done. I think it gives people some sort of solace. You may not want to press charges now, but if you do in a month, and you didn’t have this done, you’ll hate yourself very much because of it.”

“How long will it take?” Frank asks.

“We’ll do it as fast as we can,” she replies. Frank bites his lip, thinking about it. “You don’t need to decide right now, I’ll give you some time to think about your options. You’re in no hurry.”

“Okay,” Frank nods, and he sets his mind to thinking, feeling the gears and whistles, all turning in his head, trying to weigh out the benefits and rewards. He really doesn’t want to be poked and prodded any more than he already has been tonight. He’s also fairly confident that he’s not going to want to press charges later, because then everyone will know what happened to him. 

Frank will be the guy who was raped. He’ll be the hockey player who wasn’t strong enough to push a guy off. He’ll be an outcast, a sob story, nothing more. If being gay wasn’t going to make his entire hockey career a joke, then this surely would. 

Frank doesn’t want to think in such archaic ways, but guys don’t get raped. He’s a boy, he’s not supposed to get raped, it’s not supposed to happen to him. He’s supposed to be able to defend himself, he shouldn’t be a target to begin with. But this did happen to him. This is his truth, and it’s something he’s going to have to bear.

That’s why he can’t tell anyone. 

If people were to find out, he wouldn’t be able to play hockey ever again. He’ll be the gay player who was raped. Even if he never says he’s gay, people will assume. It was another guy who did it, everyone will jump to conclusions. People are awful that way. People are generally pretty awful. 

The same feeling Frank had had earlier when he thought about hockey returns to him. It’s a feeling of disgust and of terror. It’s the same feeling you get on a Sunday evening when you realize you have to go back to school tomorrow. It’s a terrible feeling which tastes like his vomit from earlier. 

Frank has a sickening realization which is not dissimilar to being smacked in the face. He can’t fathom playing hockey. Hockey is Frank’s favorite thing in the entire world. More than Gerard, more than music, more than his friends, more than his fucking mom. Hockey is his entire world. Without hockey, he’s nothing. He’s not even Frank without it.

But he can’t even begin to imagine himself actually playing it. He can’t bear the thought of stepping foot back into that ice rink. He can’t imagine playing on the same team as Morgan, or even playing on the same ice that Morgan once stood on. He can’t be alone in that locker room with Morgan, he just can’t.

And even if he were somewhere else, he can’t begin to imagine the pain of the flashbacks. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to step foot on the ice ever again without thinking about what Morgan did to him. If he were back in Boston, it wouldn’t matter that it’s not Armstrong. The pain will still be there. The echoes of that night won’t ever go away, they’ll chase him around the world, in every nook he might find. 

Hockey has been taken away from him. Like a little kid who has his lunch money taken away from him by a school bully. Frank has had everything stomped on. His own happiness, his sense of security, and now his entire world. 

Frank loves hockey. With so much of himself, with all of himself that he has to give, he loves hockey. Hockey is the thing that makes Frank who he is, it defines him in as many ways as his chromosomes do. Hockey gives him the simplest thing in his life. It gives him happiness, and clarity. Hockey is what makes sense of the hectic world around him. 

Morgan took that away from him.

“I want to do the rape kit,” Frank says, firmly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really want to note that this fic revolves around recovery, so I hope I am able to translate that to you. I know how hard last chapter was, and things are going to be rough for a little while, but this story isn't about marinating in pain, it's about making it through to the other side. I hope you can stick with me to see that.


	28. The Hollow Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank has a few visitors.

Frank is nothing but numb. He feels empty, he feels broken. He doesn’t feel like he even has enough emotions left to give. It’s like he’s wearing a mask that he can’t take off and no matter how hard he may try, things aren’t getting any better. They aren’t getting any less, either. Frank had hoped, at least with some part of him, that maybe time would make things wear away, would erode the pain like a sea eroding a beach. He knows these things take time, but that time is passing all too slowly.

It’s been three days. Not only has he refused to get out of bed, he also refuses to talk to anyone. Ray has tried, honestly he has, and Mikey even attempted to physically pull him out of bed himself, but nothing that anyone can do will make him get out. Pete’s sad face mixed with those big puppy dog eyes that he’s sure must drive Patrick up the wall and back and then up it again are still no match for Frank’s despair, and that’s saying something, because Pete’s got the biggest, brownest, softest eyes imaginable. Except of course, for Gerard, whose light hazel eyes roast Frank from within and then set him on fire. 

Gerard’s the only one who hasn’t come to see him. Gerard’s also the only one who might be able to get Frank to talk to somebody, but even that eventuality seems unlikely. Since he stepped out of the doctors office on Monday night, or rather, early Tuesday morning, he hasn’t said a word to anyone. He doesn’t intend to anytime either. 

Frank is, for all intense and purposes, gone. He won’t speak to anyone, won’t even glance at people who walk into the room. He doesn’t seem to be doing anything. Ray will walk in and he’ll be glaring up at the ceiling, and then four hours later, he’ll find Frank looking at the same part of the ceiling. But he’s awake. Throughout every single second, it seems that Frank is awake. He’s awake at night, in the morning, afternoons, evenings. Ray’s only seen him sleep once in the past three days, and even then, all it took was Ray coughing a bit too loud and Frank was awake in a flash. It’s like he’s prepared for the worst, every single sound he hears is one that prepares him for war.

Ray doesn’t know what happened, he hasn’t even a clue. He’s long since given up on trying to get Frank to talk, because it’s clear that Frank doesn’t want to talk. Ray hasn’t heard his voice in what seems like years. He didn’t realize how much he enjoyed it. He likes Frank, quite a bit actually. Frank is probably the roommate of Ray’s dreams. They like all the same music, come from right around the same area of New Jersey, both have an insatiable hunger for gory horror movies, and more to the point, Frank’s funny, creative, and most of all a kind person. It’s felt like there’s a vacancy in Ray’s life ever since Monday, like something checked out, and it just hasn’t been the same since. 

Ray is not the only one to have noticed that. Though Frank may not realize it, and in fact, he hasn’t even a single clue, there’s definitely a lull in the air when he’s not around. Frank adds something. Frank is like a spark that set ablaze a world of colors, and it’s not just on the team. Lunches, dinners, even walks through campus aren’t the same. Everything is just off. It’s just wrong. 

Frank hasn’t gone to a single class since Monday. He hasn’t touched a textbook, a computer, or even his phone. He hasn’t even considered going to practice, let alone actually attended. 

It’s hard to believe, but Frank truly has spent the last three days doing absolutely nothing. He’s lied in his bed, wishing, wanting for sleep, and it hasn’t come in anything more than twenty-minute naps which he’s woken from when a villainous face with fierce eyebrows invades his dreams.

It’s like his only activity the past few days has been to lie around, look at the ceiling, and contemplate something. Occasionally he’ll cry, and he’s tried to hide it from Ray, but he does it enough that it’s unavoidable for him not to have heard. Frank cries a lot. He never really stops. People will look in on him and even when they don’t think he’s crying, there’s still a few silent tears. Something is gravely wrong, and there’s nothing that anyone can think to do about it. 

Frank’s sure he’s dehydrated. All he’s done is sleep, sneak out for food and bathroom breaks, and then return to the cocoon of his bed. He’s starting to smell. He doesn’t care. People are growing increasingly worried about him. He doesn’t care. He’s getting emails from his professors, asking him why he’s not been in class for several days with no notice. He doesn’t care. The team is getting anxious, they’ve got a game tomorrow. Frank doesn’t care. 

Ray will talk at him every now and again. Update him on what’s going on in the world, tell him about some of the assignments that he’s missing, or details about lectures he didn’t attend. He talks about the team a lot, but Frank blocks that out. He doesn’t want to hear about hockey, doesn’t want to hear about Morgan, or Mikey, or Gerard, or anyone really. Frank just wants to sit in his own silence and stew in his own misery.

He’s been doing nothing but that recently.

Frank has a rather eventful Thursday evening, with not one but _two_ guests. The day starts off the same as all the rest. He lies in his bed, eyes having gauged out circles into his skull, from lack of sleep, or crying, or both. Everything passes as usual. Ray leaves around eleven for his first class, comes back an hour later, eyes Frank with either worry or pity before he leaves again, not returning for several hours this time. When Ray does come back that night, he settles down into his desk for his usual one-way conversation with Frank. Ray worries that it’ll eventually become a habit he’ll have to get used to. 

“So, you’ve gotta read chapters twelve and thirteen by Monday. And, last night the Wild beat the Devils by two goals. Pretty sure one of the Kardashians was in the news, though I couldn’t tell you what for, probably something inconsequential. We got a little snow today, but it’s not supposed to last. Global warming, and the works, you know? The weather was pretty nice though, almost warm, you could go outside without a jacket, at least. It might even rain tomorrow, which would be cool, I guess, but it’s not supposed to rain in November, is it? Practice was tougher than usual, because Coach is working us extra hard since you’re not there. The whole team is worried about you, they want to know when you’ll be back, because we’re not going to survive tomorrow without you. It’s just a game, though, I’m sure we’ll do okay if we lose just the one game. Pete misses you especially, you know how he gets, he’s like cling film.”

Frank does know how he gets, Pete has visited him about four times a day for the past three days. He doesn’t say much, talks about hockey, bands, tells him he’s worried and how Patrick is really sorry if Frank’s behavior has anything to do with the article. Then Pete will sigh somberly, and leave, closing the door gently behind him. It’s kind of heartbreaking. It’s nothing compared to what Frank has to go through at every second of his miserable fucking life though. 

“Gerard keeps asking about you. He said he wants to talk to you whenever you got the chance, even if you just text him. He wants to know if you’re sick, because he says it’s alright to take a few days off, but that the team really needs you. And he’s not wrong, you know, we really do. It feels like we’re missing a screw, you know? The whole team is hurting without you there, it doesn’t even feel like we’re a team right now, because somehow, you’re the glue that holds us together. We’re just a bunch of guys playing with sticks on the ice without you. But when you’re there, everything comes together. It’s alright if you have to miss the game tomorrow, Gerard said he would just like the heads up.”

Frank doesn’t say anything, but he turns his back to the wall. 

Ray sighs, somberly, his head falling down between his shoulders, as he shakes it, wondering what could possibly have happened to have made Frank act this way. Frank is a little sensitive, that has always been fairly obvious, but whatever has happened to him has transcended everything. Whatever it was must have been enormous, monumental. Ray is worried Frank may never come back. Not only to the team, but as a person. It’s like his soul has been lost in the river Styx, and Ray just doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to get it back out. 

“I really hope you’re okay,” Ray says softly, looking at Frank who’s nothing more than a lump in his sheets from the angle Ray is sitting. He sighs dejectedly and turns his gaze away from Frank, but his attention never swerves. 

The two of them sit in silence for a while, nothing but the sound of Ray flipping pages in his textbook every now and again to fill the room. 

There comes, at about half past nine, a knock on the door. Ray’s head perks up instantly, but Frank doesn’t so much as blink. Ray assumes it’s another well-wisher for Frank, as every knock on the door for the past three days has been. When he opens the door, he’s not surprised to see Gerard looking back at him from the other side. 

“Hey, Ray,” Gerard says, “Frank is… oh there he is.” Gerard starts, apparently peering around before he sees Frank in his bed, not looking back. Until he hears the voice, he doesn’t even know it’s Gerard at the door. Nor does he overly care.

“You can try, but, he’s not talked to me since Monday.”

Gerard nods, and then he walks over to Frank’s bed, and tries to peer up into it, but he can’t, as Frank’s too far up, and Gerard’s not particularly tall to begin with.

Ray gestures around and then leaves the room, leaving the door ajar behind him, hoping that Gerard will have better luck with him than Ray has had. Gerard and Frank do have a special connection that Ray doesn’t share with either of them, though he couldn’t put a name to what that connection actually _is_. 

“Hey Frank,” Gerard starts, looking up at the lofted bed, trying to find signs of any motion at all to confirm that Frank is at least breathing. There’s nothing. Gerard makes a sad sound.

“So, you’ve missed practice for three days, which you know already. I’m not mad at you, I want you to know that. No one is mad at you, not even Coach. We all know you’re going through something right now, and whatever it is, we just hope you make it out of things alright. Especially me, Frank.”

Frank wants to smile, because Gerard’s words are always so kind, and his voice, which isn’t quite like caramel, but a little bit more like honey, is something that never fails to fill Frank with joy. Except for right now. Even Gerard’s voice isn’t enough to pull him out of the hole he’s dug himself into. He feels like his life has been pushed to the bottom of a crater, and even Gerard, who’s offering him a ladder to pull himself back up, isn’t enough. 

“I don’t know how to describe it, Frank, but the world seems to have lost some of its beauty without you in it. Like, everything has become monochrome. Birds sing a little less loudly, and the earth spins a little slower, like it’s waiting for you to come back and doesn’t want to waste too much time turning without you in it. My life especially, fuck, it doesn’t feel right without you there. Not just on the team, or anything, no, I just miss, like, I miss just seeing you. Casually, I guess. You’ve become one of my best friends, and I don’t know how you’ve managed to do that, because I’ve known you about a month, and it took me at least six months to warm up even to Pete. You’ve met Pete, he’s like a fucking lap dog, he attaches himself to everything, but still, even him, he hasn’t, like, grown on me in quite the same way you have, and I don’t know why.” That last bit is a lie. Gerard does know why. It’s because Frank is quite possibly the love of his life, but he’s definitely not about to tell him that, especially not when he’s in such a delicate state as he is right now. 

“If we’re getting serious about things, Frank, I don’t really care about the team. It’s not… it’s just not important in the end. It’s a game. A trophy or not, it’s still a game. So is hockey, really. That’s not what matters to me. I mean, obviously it does, but not like, not more than you do. Frank, like I said, you’ve become a really close friend of mine recently, one of the best I’ve ever had, and like, I want you to be happy. To just be okay. Okay is all I need from you, but right now, you’re not that, and it kind of kills me.”

Gerard stirs, playing with his feet, but Frank doesn’t take any notice. Gerard seems uncomfortable not necessarily with Frank, he’s just uncomfortable. It can’t be easy for anyone to see him like this, not Gerard, not Ray, not anyone. Their discomfort doesn’t hold a candle to Frank’s, though, so it’s just something they’re going to have to live with. 

“The reason I’ve taken so long to come and see you is because I’ve just been so scared to see you like this. I heard things were bad, but I didn’t want to have to see you looking so down. I know that things can get tough sometimes, things can get harder than you ever thought they could, but I know that you are strong, Frank. I know it, because you’ve proven that much to me a million times over. You’re the best goddamn hockey player I know, and one of the best people I know. Sometimes… I think you’re something more than just a friend to me,” Gerard says that, and then instantly regrets it, turning a bright shade of red, and hoping that that didn’t sound as gay as it did in his head. It did sound pretty gay though.

Gerard hurries to cover up the words by spewing out more to take Frank’s mind off of the fact that technically Gerard just admitted to liking him. Frank hasn’t moved an inch since Gerard walked into the room, though, so there’s a chance he’s talking to an asleep Frank. Maybe Frank being asleep will be a good thing for Gerard, though, because he’s letting a lot of his heart and soul out in this tiny little dorm room, and he doesn’t like being so vulnerable. He feels like a cub, alone in the wild, with even the trees looming over him like ominous predators. Frank does that to him, not just now, but all the time. 

“You’re just too valuable to this world to let this beat you, whatever it is. I’m sure that it warrants this, I have no doubt about that, because you are so strong. So, I also know that you can push past this. You’ll come out on the other side, and the team will be ready to have you back when you can. If it’s a few days, or even a few weeks, we’ll still have you back. But just know that, we- I, especially I, am not angry with you. You need to do what you need to do. Be who you need to be. Just know that, like, you’ll always be welcomed back, and that I am always, _always_ rooting for you.”

Frank can’t see it, but he can tell when Gerard gives him a small, sad smile. It uppercuts his insides like a sword that goes all the way through. It’s painful, and it’s not fair that Gerard can make him feel even worse than he already does. Gerard is supposed to make everything better. Gerard is supposed to make Frank smile, and make him happy, and yet, every time he’s near the guy it’s like he only does the opposite. 

It’s not Gerard’s fault, to be fair. Gerard’s a good person, too good in fact, which is why Frank always feels like shit when he’s around him. Frank is in love with the guy. Far past in love with the guy. If Gerard asked Frank to marry him tomorrow, Frank will have said yes three weeks ago. The reason it hurts to be around him is because Frank wants him so bad and he doesn’t have him. He wants Gerard’s everything. He wants his love, and his affection. He wants Gerard’s jokes, even the bad ones. He wants to be in his apartment all day with horror movies, or under a blanket fort when the power goes out. He wants his good hair days and his bad hair days. He wants to scream at the TV with him when the Devils are losing, and throw shoes at it when the Blackhawks are winning. He wants Gerard for his morning breath, and for his bad habits. He wants to have arguments with Gerard about him throwing clothes all over the bedroom, and he wants to cry next to him in movie theaters, and he just wants everything to be simple. He wants Gerard, and things couldn’t get any simpler than that.

Frank wants a little apartment in a new city, their own little nook of the world. He wants it to be small, wants it to have loud neighbors who they complain about while they’re making dinner.

He wants not to be _here_. Frank wants for everything that’s happened the past few days to have never happened. He wants an alternate future, one with Gerard where nothing terrible has happened. He wants Gerard, and he wants to be in the NHL, and he wants to walk down the street holding Gerard’s hand and see a little girl wearing a jersey with his name on it as he passes by.

Frank wants to escape. He wants to run away from here, far far away. He wants to start a new life. He wants a new school, new interests, new loves and new hates. He wants to take some things with him. He wants to take his friends, wants to take his mom, and most of all, he wants to take Gerard. 

But Frank can’t have that. He can’t even have the simple little life with Gerard in a tiny apartment. He can’t have any of it. Frank can’t even have happiness. Can’t have contentedness. He can’t even feel okay. Morgan took it all away from him. What he has left Frank with is hollowness.

Frank is in a constant state of hollowness and finality. He feels like the moment after you scream into a canyon, those minutes following a big long scream into an empty valley or crevice of the world. The sound reverberates off of the landscape, and then there’s just quiet. Nothing happens, everything is still, you’re just hearing the mimicry of your voice along the surface of the plains and then it goes, further, further, until it’s gone. Then there is nothing, not even the sounds of nature. It’s a vacant, decisive sort of feeling. Somehow, it hurts. 

Left alone to only his thoughts, it feels like years pass by in his head. Every single second of every day has felt like an eon. He feels like Gandalf after being killed by the Balrog. Everything is eternal. Years pass by him, when in reality, it’s only a few moments. 

There’s a long moment, which feels longer for Frank, where Gerard just stands there, looking around the room, looking at the lump in the sheets that might be Frank, or could easily just be a well-placed pillow. There’s no sound, no shuffling, no breathing, it’s like there’s no living thing at all in the bed, or even in the room. Eventually, Gerard gives up, he sighs sadly, in a way that hurts Frank more than he thinks he can bare, and he makes for the door.

As Frank lets his thoughts settle for what feels like years, but is really only a couple of seconds, he can hear the sound of someone rushing past Gerard who’s exiting back through the doorway. Gerard rushes an “excuse me” and Frank doesn’t lift his head up because he assumes it’s Ray returning from wherever he ran off to. 

Frank is more than surprised then, when he hears the door close behind Gerard but the voice that follows it is not that of Ray’s at all. It’s a familiar voice, but not one Frank knows well, and he’s so startled by it that he has to lift his head up to see if his ears are deceiving him. 

Standing just below him, a foot or two into the door, stands Brendon, probably the only person in the world who Frank never thought he’d see in this room, short maybe of the Queen or the ghost of Al Capone. Frank furrows his eyebrows together, looking at Brendon who spares no time for casualties before he erupts into words.

“Hey, Frank, so I know you know who I am, or at least I fucking hope you do cause I’m on the same team as you, but anyway, there’s some things we’ve got to talk about. Or at least, I’ll talk and you’ll listen, as I hear you don’t do a lot of talking these days, and I suppose I understand because I know exactly what you’re going through.”

His words throw Frank off, and the fact that they’re coming from the guy on the team that Frank can honestly say he knows the least about is what makes it all the stranger. Frank honestly knows more about Morgan than he does about Brendon. A quick google search will tell you that Morgan’s dad owns a law firm in Atlanta, Georgia and could probably buy this entire school if he so wished to. Googling Brendon’s name just brings up a private Facebook page.

Frank doesn’t say anything to Brendon though, he just glares directly back at him, confusion clear on his face, and Brendon should count himself lucky, because it’s the closest thing to communication that Frank has offered anyone in about 72 hours.

“Listen, Frank, I know I don’t really talk to any of you that much, and it’s not because of some big huge riddle that you gotta work out, I just don’t really like to hang out with jocks, because in general, you’re all dicks. No offense, I’m sure not all jocks are dicks, it’s just that I’ve met a whole bunch of shitty hockey players, and not a whole heck of a lot of nice hockey players, so I’m really playing the odds here. I’m doing hockey for the scholarship, nothing else, okay? Hockey just means school is cheaper, I don’t want to make friends with the team, I just want to stay under the radar, get myself a degree that my mom will be happy to put on the refrigerator, and move on with my life. Now, unfortunately, for god knows why, everything has all fucking blown up. I can’t stay under the radar now, because everyone’s all out there screaming bloody murder over some shitty ass stuff that doesn’t fucking matter.”

Frank is barely able to keep up with Brendon at all at the rate he’s talking. Frank doesn’t process words as fast as Brendon is saying them. Nevertheless, he does his best to keep up, but it’s like a little kid running after a car on the highway. 

“But anyway, this is a longwinded way of saying that, fuck, I know it’s hard. _Believe me_ do I know. I know how tough things can be, and now, they’re getting all the worse, because Frank, oh fuck, I don’t want to say it but I’m going to anyway because I think you need to hear it. I know what happened to you, Frank,” Brendon says, resolutely, and Frank’s heart stops. Like, he can actually feel the beating halt, and it’s like the air around him is sucked out of him too. He doesn’t know where it could have gone off too.

How could Brendon know? Was Brendon there? Was he in the locker room, in the arena? If so, why didn’t he stop it? Maybe Brendon followed him to the doctor? Maybe he read his fucking mind? Maybe Brendon’s just a Holmes in disguise. Whatever the means he used to find out, Brendon knowing is not good. Maybe he doesn’t even know, though. Maybe Brendon just thinks Frank got beat up. He does have a pretty nasty cut on his head, and several bruises up and down his arms and legs, but no one has really noticed either. His hair does cover up most of the redness on his head, and he’s been under the covers for three days, so no one has seen anything further than his neck, besides the rare straggler that spied him slipping off to a vending machine or the bathroom. What could Brendon suspect that’s not the truth though, if it’s not that? Maybe he just knows that Morgan is on his trail. Maybe that’s what this is about.

“If you’re wondering how I know, the truth is,” Brendon sighs, and he looks up at Frank, his words slowing down now as if it takes a great weight to so much as utter them. “The truth is, he did it to me, too.”

Frank is aghast, and his face shows it. He can practically see his own shock reflected in Brendon’s eyes, even from several feet away. There is nothing on earth he expected to hear less than what Brendon just said. 

Frank doesn’t even consider that Brendon could be talking about something else at this point, because the only thought he has in his own head is that this is unreal. It’s like finding out the tornado that tore threw your house also ripped apart an entire city. This can’t have happen. Not twice. Not to Brendon. Brendon was… he couldn’t have been. And by Morgan? When? Why didn’t he tell anyone? What is he still doing on the team? Why didn’t he disappear like Frank has? What is he even doing right now, how is he able to just _talk_ about this? Why isn’t Morgan in a prison cell? Is Frank the first person he’s told, or did Brendon go to the hospital just like Frank has? One of the most pivotal questions that Frank has which he knows is probably selfish, but he doesn’t care that much: why didn’t Brendon warn him? If it happened to him, and he had about two weeks to prepare Frank for the storm, why is it that Frank is only finding out after the fact?

“I know that’s a hard thing for you to believe, and it’s a harder thing for me to say, but it’s true. He did the same thing to me. I’ve been trying to work up the courage to come in here and tell you that since about Tuesday when you didn’t show up for practice, because I just _knew_. I just fucking knew that he’d done it again, and I don’t know how to tell you that I’m sorry, because I should’ve stopped it from happening. I should have, I don’t know, I should have told the school board, or the cops, or you, or fucking anyone, but I didn’t and there’s a simple reason for why I didn’t. I’m a fucking coward, Frank. I just, I chickened out, I ran scared, I’ve just been so, I’ve been embarrassed I guess mostly. I feel violated and dirty, and it’s not my fucking fault, and I know that, but like, you understand, it’s like a grease that you just can’t wash off. It’s like when you get that super permanent glue on your hands and you can’t peel it off no matter how hard you try, and you could cut your finger off but you’d still have it all over. What he did to me, what he did to us, it’s like, it’s not something I can just say, and even though I know I should have, I couldn’t, not even to protect you, and that’s my fault.”

Brendon takes a deep breath, and then he paces the length of the room once, which isn’t an overly big deal, because it’s a college dorm so it only takes him two strides to be at the other end of it. He puts his face in his hands for a moment and then shakes his head like he’s trying to shake something off or away, and Frank is still looking down at him completely in shock. He doesn’t have the words to say anything, even if he was using words right now, which he’s not. 

“It’s partially my fault, and I won’t be upset if you hate me. I should have… and I just… I remember not seeing you come into the locker room that night, and my every instinct said to stay and wait for you, but like, when he came in, and I looked at him, and then I just, I-I made eye contact with M-” Brendon stops, and Frank realizes all of a sudden that Brendon can’t say the name. Frank looks at him, and it’s like he’s struggling against a stutter, or like he’s trying to say the word Voldemort. “I just, I saw him, and it all came flashing back to me. And I know I should have stayed, but I felt like, fuck, if I didn’t get out of there I was going to suffocate. But I let myself believe that you got away safely, I did, I really did, but I knew in my heart that it wasn’t the truth, and I’m sorry for that. I’m just, I’m really sorry. This shouldn’t have happened to you, shouldn’t have happened to either of us, but now you and I just sort of have to deal with it, which sucks. Like, there’s nothing I’d less rather have to deal with than this, but this is my life now, so I’ve just got to like, take it as it comes at me. And so do you now.

“But I do know what you’re going through, that’s what matters. I’ll understand if you don’t want to talk to me, especially since you’re not talking at all, I bet I’m the last person you’d ever want to talk to, because, fuck, I’m the reason this happened to you. But, if for a second, you can forgive me, then just know that like, I need a hand to hold through this too, so like, if you need to talk, please, for god’s sake, let me be the one you talk to, or let me be the one who talks at you, because I’m dying. I am an exploding star right now, and there’s nothing that can be done to stop me from turning into a blackhole, but what I do need is for someone else to understand, and right now, you’re the one I’ve got. And I really fucking hope you’re the only one I _will_ be able to talk to, because if he does this again, I swear to god, I’ll kill him myself.”

Frank is lying there, with too much information trying to beat its way through his skull, and he doesn’t know how to respond to that, or how to react to it at all, considering he’s not talking right now. 

Brendon really did have this happen to him. It must have been several weeks ago, before Morgan had latched on to Mikey. The thought of Mikey sends a chill running through Frank’s veins. If Brendon and Frank were both attacked, and Mikey was Morgan’s target before Frank, does that mean…? 

Frank gulps hugely, feeling a cold heat wave wash over him like he’s suddenly started to burn up in the middle of a snow storm. What might have happened to Mikey? If Mikey was ever alone, if he ever turned his back, the same could have happened to him. Mikey always makes himself out to be so strong, to be unperturbed by just about everything but no one can be impervious. What if it happened to Mikey too? Mikey, one of Frank’s closest friends, someone who he feels bad to say is a far more important person to him than Brendon is. Is Mikey okay?

But that thought is pushed to the back of his mind when he remembers _why_ this happened to him. Frank gave that interview. He may not have typed the words, but it might as well have been his article. Brendon was hurt because of _his_ actions. A guy he barely knows, someone he’s scarcely ever talked to, was hurt, torn apart, because of something Frank did. And now Brendon is blaming himself for it happening to Frank, when Frank’s the one started the ball rolling in the first place. 

This really is all Frank’s fault. Everything that’s happened these last few weeks, it’s all been him. He’s the one to blame. 

How would Brendon feel if he knew? Would Frank even be able to live with himself if Brendon knew? The answer is probably not. Frank might just crawl under a rock, or swim to the bottom of a lake and keep himself there just to spare the world of any other monstrosities he’s sure to cause by merely existing. 

The thought also crosses Frank’s mind that Brendon hasn’t shown anything of the nature that Frank has the past few weeks. This must have happened recently to him, but his behavior hasn’t changed in the slightest. Not that Frank knows much about his behavior to begin with, but Brendon hasn’t missed a day of practice, hasn’t missed any classes, nothing at all. It’s like he’s gone totally unaffected. Of course, Frank hasn’t seen the goings on of Brendon behind closed doors. 

Still, Brendon is on his feet. He’s talking, he’s going about his days like everything is regular and routine. Does that make Frank weak? He hasn’t been able to get out of bed for days, hasn’t talked to anyone in just as long. Is Frank more fragile? Weaker? Is Frank just less of a person than Brendon? What makes Brendon so strong as to pretend like this never happened to him? 

How _can_ he pretend? How does he pretend that everything is fine, when nothing is fine? Nothing is okay, everything is awful. What gives Brendon the strength to even go on, especially considering the fact that Frank genuinely can’t envision his life moving forward from this point.

“I get that you don’t want to talk to me, and that’s fine. If you never do, I’ll respect that decision. It’s just that, you deserved to know you weren’t alone. Like with that interview in the school paper said, it’s a relief knowing there’s someone out there who can share your same emotions, frustrations, whatever. I’m not happy that there _is_ someone else, because what happened was despicable, but if we’re both going to be miserable, we might as well be miserable together. Even if you choose not to talk to me, at least you’ll know that you’re not alone, that the same weight you bare is one I have to trouble with as well.”

Frank lets the silence of the room settle, staring down at Brendon, blinking every so often, and the two of them just look at each other. It’s the first time in days where the minutes seem to pass by quickly, because Frank can swear it’s only a few seconds, but it turns out to be a good couple of minutes. Frank doesn’t know what he should say, doesn’t know what he _can_ say. Frank feels much like a confused owl who has come across another owl and they’re now having a staring contest to see who is allowed to retrieve a small mouse. 

“Right, so I’ll just go and leave you to come up with insults to try out on me for the future,” Brendon says, “might I just point out that I have an above average sized forehead, so if you’re looking for some ammunition, it would do best to start there and work your way down.” Frank actually smiles a little bit at that, noticing only now that Brendon is right, he does have a huge fucking forehead. It’s usually covered with a hockey mask, but now he doubts he’ll be able to unsee it. 

Brendon makes for the door, and that’s where Frank swallows something that’s definitely not his pride, but it’s a big lump in his throat anyway. “Brendon,” Frank says, and his voice comes out hoarse and croaky because of little use. “Thank you for… for telling me.”

Brendon turns back to look at Frank at the sound of his voice, and he looks somewhat surprised to see him talking, but not altogether in disbelief. He nods at Frank curtly, but respectfully.

“I’m sorry for what happened to you,” Frank says, and he means it in several ways. He’s sorry that Brendon went through the same horror and torment that Frank did, and that he’s been fighting that battle alone, keeping his head up all the while when Frank can’t even imagine the strength it must take to do so. He’s also sorry that it’s probably him to blame for Brendon’s assault in the first place. Everything is his fault these days, it’s growing wearisome having to acknowledge it. 

“I’m sorry too,” Brendon says, and the look in his big brown eyes is nothing if not sympathetic. He does understand, and he does truly know what Frank’s going through. In a world full of too many survivors of the same thing, Frank connects most with Brendon. He’s on the same hockey team as Brendon, lives just down the hall from the guy, and he was hurt by the same person. They share a bond that Frank is never going to have with anyone else, or at least, like Brendon had said, he hopes no one will ever share. Especially Mikey. 

Frank thinks about how full of blame his life is. He blames himself for everything. He blames himself for everything he can think of. Everything always comes back to him, and he’s not egocentric, it’s just that, he is the cause of almost every single one of his problems right now. He’s the one at fault for the article. He’s the one at fault for Morgan’s reaction to that article, including both his and Brendon, and hopefully not Mikey’s attacks. He’s to blame for his own despair around Gerard, as it’s his own fault that he went and fell in love with the guy in the first place. It’s all his fault he’s even hear at this school right now. Frank should have stuck with the way things were before. He should’ve stayed at Boston, stayed at the school with the best hockey team which was going to take him the furthest in life. He should’ve stuck with the emptiness he felt there, the lack of friends, the lack of any real motivation besides hockey. Armstrong was a mistake, all of it, it’s all been one big, monolithic mistake.

Because now, even though he’s here at a school he’s growing to love, with friends that he’d probably step in front of an oncoming train for, even with all the sunlight that they bring into his life, it’s never going to stop being overshadowed by the cloud that is Morgan. Morgan is a black stain on a white shirt. He’s a stain on Frank, one that he’s afraid everyone can see. 

Even Frank’s truest, longest love has gradually come to be ruined for him, and it’s all because of Morgan. Frank has some serious soul searching to do when it comes down to the subject of hockey, and sooner or later, he knows he’ll have to face that. The truth is, he’s scared of what decision he’s going to come to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry that this chapter took so long, I just moved house which, on top of being depressing and hard, has made everything super hectic.


	29. The Dilemma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To be or not to be.

Uncertainty has always been a huge part of Frank’s life. He doesn’t know how to make it through life without questioning his every move. His constant solution is to retrench, rework, find new routes, and take the one that makes the most sense.

However, sometimes he comes upon an impasse, that impasse being the lack of any real path. There’s no clear way forward, nor is there a way forward at all. This is his current situation. The only thing Frank has managed to scrabble up is to stay in his bed for the rest of his natural life and probably for the rest of whatever comes after that.

This, he knows, is not a logical step forward, as it’s not a real life. He knows one thing for sure, though, and it’s that things cannot go back to the way that they used to be.

Looking back on it, it’s like a forgotten memory, something lost behind a fog. Everything from before seems hazy. He can’t believe that there was once a time, not so long ago, when his routine was to go to class, eat meals, go to practice, study, and sleep. That was his actual life, just a week ago he was doing that exact thing. That was once his course of action, and the only one that he particularly cared for. 

Now, things are different. He can’t get out of bed. He feels like he’s in a constant state of death. He cries every few minutes, and he’s becoming dehydrated because of how much he’s crying. Everyone feels sorry for him, including himself, and he’s fucking miserable.

With this many days off from his life, you’d expect him to have found something enjoyable to do in them. He might have picked up a new hobby or found a new Netflix show to absorb his every waking hour, but no. Frank hasn’t found the time to do anything so reckless. All he’s done has been sit in his bed, stewing in his own turmoil. 

It’s starting to get boring, and yet, he doesn’t see any other possible move forward from here. 

There’s a pain inside him that is unjustified in its brutality. It’s clawing, raking through him, churning his insides until there’s nothing left of him to linger on.

This pain, it’s physically incapacitating. He’s not lying in bed, soaking in his own misery, because he _wants_ to. He literally can’t do anything else. When he tries to move, his entire body hurts. His body is mirroring the pain inside of him. His stiff, aching joins are as painful as the thoughts and memories inside of him. 

Eventually, it’s a certainty that he will have to return to classes. That he will have to get up, to live on. If he doesn’t, he’s going to lose almost every letter grade that’s on offer for him. 

He’ll have to create a routine, a bastardized version of the old one. It’ll require getting out of bed, showering, making himself presentable, going to class, studying, and being attentive all the while. He doesn’t know how he’ll ever be able to manage it. It hadn’t seemed like a lot a week ago, and that was on top of hockey practices, four in the morning figure skating sessions, and his social life. Now, however, merely lifting up a limb is like climbing the highest peaks the world has on offer. It’s a monument to his perseverance that he’s able to wake up in the morning. 

There is nothing he wouldn’t give to just sleep and not wake up again. He doesn’t want to die, that’s not quite the emotion he feels. He’s just unhappy all the time. It gives a sense of permanence, like it will go with him through the rest of his life, and he’s sure that it will. No one gets _past_ this. They get through it, bear it, but they never _forget_. It doesn’t go away. Coming to grips with that is a hard thing for Frank to wrap his mind around. He’s not ready to move forward. He wishes everything would just stand still. He just needs time. Time to pull himself up.

There are more factors contributing to Frank’s disarray then just the event itself. On the surface, that’s the worst thing, but it goes deeper. Namely, what happened effects everything moving forward on top of being the trauma that it is. Frank has one very hard decision to make, more difficult than all other decisions he’s made before.

Hockey is and has always been everything to Frank. Since about the age when he was too old for Blue’s Clues but too young for Saturday Night Live, Hockey has always filled that space. Hockey has been his everything. Frank has hockey posters on his walls, he has mountains of ticket stubs in his dresser, he has hockey in all of his plans for the future, and he has hockey in his blood. Hockey is as much a part of him as his eyes or ears. 

But ever since that night, hockey has been entirely tainted. He can’t imagine being on the ice without thinking about what it caused him. He can’t step foot in that ice rink without knowing what happened to him there. He can’t look his teammates in the eyes knowing that one amongst them did what Morgan did. Even if they’re not Morgan himself, they wear the same jersey. _Frank_ wears the same jersey. 

He can’t even think about the concept of hockey without it flashing back to him, dramatically, in full color and slow motion. The events of that night are like a slow replay played on ESPN the morning after a hockey game. 

The thing about it is, Frank has never considered anything else. He hasn’t ever thought about himself as a lawyer, or a business owner, an accountant, or a computer programmer. He has only ever considered hockey. The only backup he’s ever planned on was to work his way up the ladder at a fucking Walmart. His ultimate end goal has always been hockey. He’s been so intent on hockey that not to see that dream through would make his entire life a failure. 

Now, though, hockey feels wrong. It feels like it’s been distorted, changed, turned to something that it never was meant to be. It’s like pouring cream into coffee. At first there’s only one spot, but then it dissolves, growing into the coffee until they become the same thing. Hockey has done that for Frank. Once, it was the greatest, most amazing, and exciting thing in the world. Now, it’s a monster, warped, twisted, beyond repair.

Frank doesn’t know if he’ll ever actually be able to play again. These last few days have given him all the time he’s needed to think, and unfortunately, he might’ve taken too much time because all he can think about is how much he doesn’t want to play hockey again. He loves the rush he gets when he skates, loves the way his feet ache after he spends too long on skates, he loves the way he sweats so much he could probably wring out his own jersey. He loves hockey to death. But he’s also in pain. Frank can’t say that his love of hockey outweighs the pain that it’s caused him. He’d love to say there’s no question, that hockey will always come out on top, but that’s not something he’s sure of anymore.

Before this, he definitely would’ve been sure. Nothing, not rain nor shine, could’ve taken him away from the ice. In sickness and in health, hockey was his one true love. He never accounted for this, though. Frank never accounted for his soul to be ripped out of his body with blunt instruments. He never thought that anything like this could happen to him. 

It’s not just him, though, and somehow that makes it harder than it does easier. Brendon is in the same boat. The thing that happened to Frank, that took his life and spirit away, Brendon went through it too. Brendon is _going_ through it too. How does he do it? Brendon has been at practice every day since Frank got here. In fact, Brendon will arrive early most days. How is he able to do that after what happened to him? How can it not have the same impact on him as it does on Frank? Is Frank just weak? Is he not good enough to get through this? Is he doing something wrong?

Maybe Frank is just more sensitive, too sensitive even. Maybe he is taking this way too hard. Except, there’s no other way for him to take it. As much as he would love to stop being sad and in pain, he can’t just make that go away. He doesn’t have that sort of godlike control over his emotions. He’s in pain. He’s suffering. He’s sad, and depressed, and fucking scared. And there is nothing he can do or think that will take that away from him. There’s no one who can say or do anything that can take that away from him.

Frank knows what his own decision is going to be, and that kills him. He knows what he’s going to have to do. It sickens him, sickens him to the bone, because hockey is everything he loves, but he knows that there’s an obvious answer.

How can Frank play on the same team as the man who raped him? How can Frank step foot in the same room as the one where it happened? How can he play the sport that caused this to happen to him?

Hockey is no longer a reasonable thing for Frank to do. There’s no sense in him doing it. He can’t play when he’s in this sort of emotional state. This isn’t a decision he should’ve ever had to come to, and not one in this short amount of time, but it’s a decision he knows he’s going to have to make. There’s just no way for Frank to keep playing. It’s not what he wants, not by any means, but what Frank wants is out of the question. What he wants is for the pain to be taken away. He can’t just take this pain away, though. There’s no cure for this, there is only persistence. 

Except for his constant reliving of the night with grizzly color, hockey has been one of the only subjects on Frank’s mind. He’s been unable to think of anything else. 

Frank hasn’t stepped foot outside in several days. He hasn’t even left his room for any reason other than to use the bathroom and get food. Even so, Ray has been bringing him things he stole from the dining hall like muffins, bagels, apples, anything small that won’t be missed. Frank has stood up, maybe a grand total of ten times in the last four days.

He doesn’t want to stand up now, but Frank decides that it’s about time. He needs to do something with today. He knows what the ultimate destination is going to be, and that’s why he can’t help but put it off. He doesn’t want to do this today, but he should. He’s been putting it off for four days already, the worst thing he can do is to keep on pretending. He can’t play this game any longer, because he’s not the only one being hurt by pretending.

It’s not fair of him to leave the team hanging any longer. They’ve got a game tonight, and they’re counting on Frank. They probably know he won’t be there tonight, but they should know he’s not going to be there any other night either. It’s fair to them for him to give them his verdict, even if it’s one they’re not going to want to hear. 

There’s a lot of stuff that Frank is throwing down the drain by quitting the team. He’s throwing out his entire future, for example. He’s ridding himself of his favorite thing in the world. He won’t be with any of his friends anymore, not Travie, Mikey, Pete, or Ray. He won’t get the chance to be near Gerard anymore. He won’t have the thrill of it, feel the rush that fills him every time he hits the ice. He won’t have his future career anymore. His career will be entirely gone if he doesn’t play hockey anymore. How can he ever play professionally if he doesn’t play in college? That’s basically the only medium in which recruitment is done, and if he’s not playing all four years, no one will ever get the chance to see how much they need him on their team. 

He’s also giving up on his scholarship to this school. It’s not a cheap school. It’s less than Boston had been, but it sure as hell isn’t what you would call cheap. He’s also stuck here for the next year, he can’t even go to a different school, a better school, for another nine months. But that’s assuming he knows what he wants to do that’s not hockey. Frank can’t go to a school that specializes in his interests if he doesn’t have any interests, and he really doesn’t. 

There’s really no choice for him, though. He can’t play hockey here anymore. He just can’t. So what else is he to do but quit? 

Frank climbs out of his loft bed slowly, feeling more than ever like his feet are going to slip on the ladder down. 

Once his feet meet the ground he stands there, just standing. He doesn’t move because he doesn’t know what to do when he does. He supposes he should put some clothes on, though he doesn’t really feel the need to. He’s wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt, if anyone has a problem with that, it’s their own qualm to bear, and he doesn’t care enough to do anything about it. 

He does perform a sniff check to make sure he’s not going to leave the room smelling like four-day old stale clothes that need to be washed. He does smell like four-day old clothes that need to be washed. Frank relents and changes his shirt, but people are just going to have to settle for the effort he is putting in to being presentable which will not exceed a fresh shirt. 

According to the clock on Ray’s desk, it’s just past one, midday, when no one is likely to be at the rink except for Coach and Gerard. He should probably talk to them now before people start swarming into the rink for the game later.

Frank’s stomach rumbles, and he’s not entirely sure it’s because he’s hungry. He hasn’t eaten real food in days, and his entire body is practically corroding because of it. He can’t survive off of Cheetos and granola bars. He’s making himself sick.

Staying in bed probably isn’t going to help him much either. He’s only doing more damage to his body.

The good news is that Morgan didn’t do any permanent damage to Frank. Besides the bumps and bruises he’s got here and there, he didn’t leave anything _else_ behind. That hasn’t made what happened any easier, but it’s made Frank slightly relieved. The lab reports his doctor sent him have been somewhat comforting on a mental level, but it doesn’t change things much. He’s not infected, he’s not sick, but he feels like he is.

He’s also very sure of one thing. He can’t report. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to be the boy who was raped. It just doesn’t happen to boys. He’d lose every bit of his pride if he allowed that information to go public. What’s worse is that he’s a sports player, a hockey player. This just doesn’t happen. Not to people like him.

The word embarrassment doesn’t quite reach the right level of prowess. It would be far worse, far worse than anything. A boy in his position, it might as well be a coming out alongside the humiliation of his being a boy in the first place. His career would be in tatters. No one would ever take him seriously again. He wouldn’t be a good hockey player, he would be the hockey player who was raped.

His ideals are archaic, and on some level he knows this, but it doesn’t change the way he feels about it. Just because he knows it’s ridiculous doesn’t change that he feels the way he does. Wanting something doesn’t make it true.

Frank would love to see Morgan rot behind bars, would love to see his hockey career ruined and his name to be shouted in infamy on the streets of this town, but he knows that he doesn’t have the strength or willpower to see it happen. He wants, so much, to believe that he could be the one to strike Morgan down, but there’s no way he’ll ever be able to. Frank doesn’t have the guts. 

Not yet at least. 

Pacing around the room, trying to psych himself up to even leave the safety that the door provides, he catches his eye in the mirror Ray has hung up on the door. He looks pale, morose, cadaverous. Frank looks like a drawing from Tim Burton’s newest movie, which has somehow been brought to life. He’s not appealing in the slightest. He looks like he’s suffering from some virus, and he can’t believe it’s his own emotional state that has taken such a huge physical toll on him. His entire appearance, in some way, is entirely self-inflicted. 

He looks like he’s been through hell. The horror of that night reads across his face like a book, and he’s unsure if he’ll be able to compose himself enough to mask that. He makes eye contact with himself in the mirror, and it’s hard to hold the gaze, because his eyes are red, and the bags underneath them are so huge that he physically can’t look at them for too long without feeling his eyes begin to water. 

Frank never realized how unfathomably violated this sort of thing makes you feel. He knew it would feel bad, but he never considered just how much or in what way. It’s not about being attacked or hurt, there’s something far more gravely traumatic about it. It feels like his innocence has been taken away from him. Frank’s never even kissed anyone, but now, it feels like he’s been left out in a sewer to decay for a few months. It’s not fair. It’s disgusting. There’s no amount of soap or water that can wash it away. 

Morgan took something enormous from him. He might as well have taken out a knife and chopped off one of Frank’s limbs, because the damage he’s left in his wake is just as prominent. 

If anything, all this does is further prove why Frank needs to quit the team. He doesn’t have another choice. Frank has been through hell and back, and he can’t put himself through it any longer.

If his life is just classes, food, then back to the dorm to stew, then so be it. If that’s all he has right now than it’s all he has. But at least it’s better than the constant torture of having to see Morgan every day.

Today is the first time in four days that Frank walks outside, and he’s quite dramatically startled by the sunlight when it greets him. The day is not a warm one, not by any means, so he’s glad that he had the forethought to pull on a jacket before leaving his room. 

Everyone around him scuttles around with their jackets pulled tightly to them, though there’s few people outside right now, considering the hour, as most people will be in class right now. Frank scurries off to his location, which is quite close to his dorm, a fact which once pleased him greatly, but now it practically sickens him. 

The heavily windowed building gleams in front of him, sun refracting off of the glass of the windows, making it a blinding building. It makes the building seem more beautiful and upscale than it actually is. The sun makes it glow, which is new, because usually the ice rink looks like a decaying relic of a town growing up around it. 

A chill runs through Frank that has nothing to do with the temperature. He stops in front of the doors, and he looks at the door handles before him, unsure of whether he’s capable of gripping them or not. It feels like the strength in his fingers has worn out, having been eroded away in the past few days he’s spent without flexing the joints. 

Frank takes a deep breath, then another, and several more. He stares at the doors still, incapable of seeing past the goliath of _opening_ them. 

How can he step foot in there? That’s where it happened. This is the scene of his every nightmare, and waking horror that has plagued him for four days. Behind these doors is the very room where the unspeakable happened. How can he ever step foot in there again?

This is one bullet he is going to have to bite, though. Hockey still means a lot to him, and he won’t allow himself to play a masquerade for any longer. He knows that he can’t continue with the team, and they deserve to know that too.

Frank grits his teeth, before clasping his hands around the cold handle of the door, and wrenching it open.

The air that meets Frank is warm. It’s such a drastically different climate that feeling the temperature increase is like walking through a solid wall. Frank steps foot through the wall, allowing the warmth to blanket him, though it doesn’t do anything to cure him of the shivering that spreads through his entire body. The door closing behind him leaves a lingering draft, which, as he stands there in the front lobby, dissipates slowly.

He stands there, in the lobby. The windows shine through the bright light of the afternoon sun. Everything is normal. The same old posters and newspaper clippings line the walls. The same letters on the walls and doors, the same paint, the same carpet. It even smells the same. 

Frank hates it. 

He walks slowly on the same ugly grey carpet. He can’t imagine anywhere else he’d rather be less.

The walls echo with his nightmares. They’re alive with it, practically pulsing with the horrors they’ve witnessed. This entire building has absorbed the memory of that night. 

Frank practically faints as he forces himself to walk past the door to the locker room. He doesn’t want to think about what’s on the other side of that door.

Frank considers all the things that he’s going to have to tell Coach, all the questions he’ll have to dodge, all the hell that he’s going to put everyone he knows through, but he knows he doesn’t have any other options. He’s in the middle of considering all these things when he practically runs into someone.

That someone happens to be Gerard, who’s too busy with his own thoughts to even notice he was in someone else’s path. Gerard gets a mean elbow to his side which he’s saying sorry for, even though he’s the one who got hurt. He does so before he even looks up to see that it’s Frank standing before him. 

“Frank!” Gerard says ecstatically, with a true glint in his eyes, “you’re back! Thank god, the team _needs_ you. You know, I forgot how much we sucked before you came along, and then you were MIA and I remembered again, but thank god you’re b-”

“I’m not back, Gerard,” Frank interrupts. “I’m quitting.”

“You’re…” Gerard starts, trails off, and then snorts out laughter. “You’re kidding.” He says it like a statement, grinning back at Frank, waiting for him to crack a smile and say it was a lame excuse for a joke.

“I’m not,” Frank says, and the smile Gerard expects to see is nowhere to be found, instead, he faces a man who has bags under his eyes that seem to have gauged out permanent residence. He sees something he can’t even describe in Frank’s face. It’s like he’s looking at a shell of a man, someone who’s dead and just hasn’t gotten the memo yet. It’s incredibly disconcerting, and the tone of Frank’s voice is one of complete, stone cold seriousness. 

Gerard doesn’t like it, not one bit. Frank looks depressed, he looks worse than he can ever remember seeing him. He looks like the only thing that he’s been doing at all the past few days has been crying.

Something happened to him. Gerard doesn’t know what, but his previous visit instigated a sickening feeling in him, which has only doubled now that he sees Frank here. He hoped it was simple. Not happy, but simple, something that you can move on from. As awful as it sounds, he hoped it was something like a family pet dying. He knows that’s not fun, but it’s something you can get over, even if it’s hard.

This isn’t the reaction of a man whose dog died. This isn’t remotely close to that. Whatever happened is a mountain compared to that, Gerard can tell. It’s in his eyes, or rather in the bags underneath them, and in the droop of his head like holding it up is simply too much work. Something big, very big, has happened to Frank. 

“Frank,” Gerard says, shaking his head. “You can’t be quitting.”

“I am,” Frank replies.

“You can’t. The team can’t hold on without you,” Gerard replies.

“I’m sorry,” Frank says, briefly. And he is. But that doesn’t change what he needs to do.

“Frank, quitting just isn’t an option, you know it’s not.”

“I have to do this, Gerard,” Frank says, and he looks at Gerard, right in the eyes, before he loses the contact and stares instead at a spot behind him, feeling like he’s going to cry just being here.

“If it’s more time you need, then you can have it. I’m not in a rush to put you back on the ice if you’re not ready to be there right now. If you need some time to rehabilitate yourself, go ahead. But you can’t quit, Frank. You just can’t, and you know that.”

“It’s not time I need, Gerard. I need to leave. I just need to.”

“Frank, we can wait for you. A week, a month, I don’t care. We just need you back. If not for our sake, then for yours.”

Frank feels like a zombie. He remembers the routines of his life, remembers the basic mechanics of who he is, but they all seem long gone now. He feels like everything has been taken away from him, like he’s been evicted from his life like it was just a house he couldn’t pay the mortgage on. 

“I have to quit. I’ve already made up my mind.”

“But your scholarship… you’ll lose it without hockey. You’ll lose that, and then what?” Gerard asks, because it doesn’t seem like Frank thought this through. Frank is at this school because of a hockey scholarship. If he doesn’t play hockey, that will be taken away from him, with no remorse. The school will be glad to make him pay full price. And then what? Frank can’t give up on that. He just can’t. He’ll lose so much more than whatever has prompted him to quit might make him think.

“It’s unfortunate,” Frank says, “but it’s what I have to do.”

“Frank,” Gerard shakes his head, “You love hockey.”

Frank doesn’t say anything in response to this. He doesn’t know what to say. He does love hockey, Frank loves it with every bit of him, but he’s stuck. Frank is caught between a rock and a hard place, and this is the only option he has left.

He can’t be on the same team with Morgan, he simply can’t. He can’t tell anyone what happened to him, he’s too scared of what will happen if they know. What Morgan will reveal if they know. And he can’t even stand to be touched anymore, the slightest contact with other people sends him into a panic, how is he supposed to play a sport that involves contact? More physical contact than practically any other sport. Hockey isn’t an option anymore, no matter how much he loves it. It hurts him inside more than he has words to say, but Frank doesn’t see how there could ever be any other options.

“Frank, you can’t quit,” Gerard says, pleads almost, “you’ve got the potential to be the greatest hockey player of this generation. You could be the next Gretzky, you could be Crosby, Ovechkin. You could be _better_. You can’t give that up.”

“Gerard, you don’t understand, you can’t understand,” Frank says, shaking his head.

“You’re right, I don’t understand. I don’t understand how you could throw away something I know you care about with all your heart. I have seen you on the ice, I know how much time you put into this. You _breathe_ hockey. You pump it through your veins. No one has ever looked more like they belong out there than you, so tell me, why is it that you would give that all up?”

Frank shakes his head, declining to answer. 

Gerard makes an exasperated sound, and he puts his hand on Frank’s shoulder. Frank flinches, gets this look of what Gerard can only describe as fear in his eyes, and he pulls away like Gerard’s hand is on fire. Like Gerard’s touch is too hot for his skin to bear. 

“Frank, if you can look me in the eye and tell me that you don’t want to play hockey anymore, than fine. I’ll let you go ahead, tell Coach you quit, I won’t try to stop you. But if you can’t, then I don’t think I can accept your resignation. If you truly don’t want to play hockey anymore, then I’ll let you go. But that’s not what this is about, and we both know it. Whatever it is, it cannot ruin your hockey career. You’ll only be hurting yourself more in the end, because I _know_ how much you love hockey. I know how huge it is to you, and I know that you can’t just give it up.”

“Gerard, it’s not that simple.”

“It is. When it comes to what you love, what you’re passionate about, it is that simple. If you love hockey as much as I think you do, you’ll understand why I can’t let you destroy yourself this way.”

“Gerard, you have to let me do this.”

“Why?” Gerard asks, simply.

“Why?” Frank asks.

“Yes, why. Give me a good reason.”

“It’s personal,” Frank replies. 

Gerard groans, and he decides it’s now or never to reveal that he knows Frank’s secret, because he needs to get to this kid before he ruins his own life. “Frank, is it about the figure skating? Because if it is, I can assure you that I don’t care, none of the guys will either, okay, it’s not that big of a deal.” This isn’t exactly true, but if it’s what he needs to hear, he’ll say it. Gerard will just threaten anyone who tries to insult Frank’s figure skating.

Gerard knows in his heart that the figure skating isn’t it. He knows that can’t be the cause of why Frank’s quitting. But he can’t believe that anything could ever be so serious as to make him quit hockey. Hockey is everything to Frank. You can see it in his eyes, he has it engraved in him like the tattoo on his back.

“How do you…?” Frank starts, but then he shakes it off, because this isn’t the time to be talking about that. However Gerard knows, it’s not important. “It’s not that, Gerard.”

Frank doesn’t even think he’s upset that Gerard knows. He’s experienced pain so many times worse that he doesn’t think anything like that could hurt him at this point. The truth is, it probably could, it could probably add on to the pain tenfold, but Frank can’t worry himself with that right now. He’s got a whole mess of other problems, of other pains of higher degrees.

“Then what?” Gerard asks, looking like he’s getting ready to get on his knees and beg Frank. 

“I just need to do this,” Frank says, and he starts to walk past Gerard, done with entertaining the idea that Gerard can somehow talk him out of it. Gerard can’t talk him out of this decision, he’s spent days pouring over this decision, letting it destroy his every will, and he isn’t going to let Gerard’s words destroy his efforts. 

He had so wished that Gerard would be able to talk him out of this. He knows he doesn’t want this. He knows the very idea of quitting hockey makes him want to puke. But thinking about playing alongside Morgan makes him want to puke just as much. It’s a dilemma that has no solution. He can’t win. Gerard can’t talk him out of it. As much as he wishes that Gerard has all the answers, the truth is that he doesn’t. 

“No, Frank, stop,” Gerard says, and he instinctively grabs Frank’s wrist, to try to pull him back, and Frank goes absolutely crazy at the touch. Gerard’s hand closes around the small part of his arm, not tightly, but firm enough to try to prevent Frank from walking any further, because he doesn’t want to let Frank go over to Coach and actually quit. But Frank, at this touch, breaks down.

He makes a whining, terrified, sound, and he tries to tear his arm away from Gerard, by any means possible. He’s willing to break his own fucking arm if it means Gerard will _let go_. Gerard, not registering what’s happening, doesn’t loosen his grip, which sends Frank into a full-on panic attack in only a matter of seconds. Gerard realizes what he’s doing only too late, he’s not even holding Frank’s wrist tight enough to hurt him in anyway, but Frank loses it as if he’d just been touched with an iron.

Frank wrenches his hand back, Gerard letting go the second he realizes the mistake he’s made, but it’s too late. Frank, in his attempt to get away from Gerard, stumbles, and then falls over, falls against the wall, not hurting himself that much, but once he’s on the floor he realizes he can’t breathe. Not in the typical way where he’s having trouble breathing and his breaths are coming out as wheezes, but like he actually _cannot_ breathe. His throat has closed up completely, like someone has tied a noose around his throat. Air won’t pass. He can’t even remember how it’s supposed to.

Frank starts gasping, and Gerard just looks down at him, aghast, not sure what’s going on. He’s not sure what he did, it’s all happened so fast, he can’t even pinpoint at what point things fell to pieces. 

Gerard recognizes that Frank is having a panic attack, having suffered from enough of them himself, but why on earth it’s happening right now, Gerard doesn’t know. Frank starts crying, he puts his head in his hands, draws his knees up into his body, almost in a fetal position, and he just starts _bawling_ , right there in the hallway, like a little kid who fell and scraped their knee on the sidewalk. He’s melting into a mess right before Gerard’s very eyes, and the thing is, Gerard doesn’t know why.

Gerard leans down, wants to tell Frank he’s sorry, wants to reassure Frank of whatever he needs, anything to get Frank to calm down. He’s not sure what he’s done, but Gerard will take full responsibility for it. Maybe the pressure of trying to quit got to be too much, and Gerard brought him to a boiling point. It must have something to do with that, Gerard thinks. He’d been a little too aggressive in trying to stop Frank from quitting, that would make sense. After all, for whatever reason Frank came to this decision, he’s sure that it’s been stressful. Being in that place, there’s no way to avoid being in emotional turmoil. 

Gerard puts his hand on Frank’s knee, trying to be comforting, trying to show him in any way that he’s sorry. 

“Don’t touch me,” Frank snaps, swatting at Gerard’s hand, and he looks up at Frank, a flash of anger on his face before Gerard watches his face turn almost instantly back into one of fear or grief, or both.

Gerard evaluates him sympathetically. There’s probably a perfectly logical explanation for Frank’s behavior, he just has to work out what that might be.

Frank’s been AWOL for days now, he won’t talk to anyone, he barely even acknowledged Gerard’s existence last night. Now he says he wants to quit hockey. Hockey is everything to Frank. There’s a spark that lights up in Frank’s eyes when he talks about hockey, or when he plays it. When you watch him on the ice, it’s like watching a force of nature. Even looking at him watch others play hockey is a game full of suspense and trepidation. Frank and hockey go together like peanut butter and jelly. They’re practically incomplete without the other.

What could make him want to quit hockey then? What on this earth could actually justify that sort of rash action? And what could make Frank have a panic attack merely by being touched?

Gerard has a sinking feeling. In his head, there’s a sound like brand new Legos snapping into place. It’s the feeling of a puzzle piece finding its mate. But this eureka moment is not the kind of discovery that Gerard wants to be burdened with. 

“No,” Gerard says, shaking his head, and he’s looking at Frank, finally understanding why he looks so fragile. He can’t stop shaking his head, like if he shakes it more, it’ll stop being true. What he suspects, it will evaporate, and the world will give him solace. He can’t stop repeating “No, Frank” over and over again, not wanting to let it be true.

Not to Frank, not to him. Frank, of all people. _His_ Frank, the one who heats him up, lights a candle inside of him. This couldn’t have happened to him. This is Frank. Even if he doesn’t love Gerard back, it doesn’t change things. This couldn’t happen to Frank. To Gerard, to anybody else, but not to Frank.

“Gerard,” Frank says, with this look of despair in his eyes, and Gerard just wants to hug him, to hold him to his chest and tell him that it’ll be alright. But he can’t touch Frank, he can’t do that to him. He can’t allow anyone to hurt Frank, not scare him even, not like that. Never again. 

Gerard sinks down to the ground to look at him, be eye level with him, as Frank loses it in the corridor, and he wants to pull Frank to somewhere safer, somewhere secluded, where he can just let it out without the danger of someone walking in, but he can’t, and it sucks. 

Gerard wants to squeeze the pain away. Like if he hugs Frank for long enough, lets Frank cry it out, it’ll just disappear. Gerard has never felt the need to hold someone as much as he does right now, and the worst part is that he can’t. He’d run the risk of hurting Frank more, and the last thing Frank deserves is to be hurt more than he already has been.

“Tell me…” Gerard starts, and then stops, looks around, feels as though the walls have eyes and that they’re going to divulge his secrets when he’s not expecting it. He can’t stop himself though, he feels as though it just might kill him. “Tell me who hurt you, Frank.”

“Gerard,” Frank says, shaking his head. It’s the only word he can get out right now, because he feels as if his entire body is convulsing. Like he’s reliving that awful night. His brain won’t stop playing reruns, it’s something he wants nothing more than to banish from his entire brain. But he can’t, and that forces him to remember it, at any given moment, like being hit with a freight train. Over and over again. Scene by scene, moment by moment. He remembers being pushed to the ground, having his face shoved into the tiled floor, and he remembers everything else. Vividly. 

He’s also not sure how to feel about Gerard knowing. Part of him is almost relieved because someone, _Gerard_ , knows. Frank doesn’t have any emotional connection to Brendon, not really. He feels bad for the guy, in the same way he feels bad for himself, but sharing that connection doesn’t bring the two of them closer to each other. 

But Gerard is very different. Gerard is the best friend Frank has here, and that would make him the best friend he’s ever had in his life. No one is there for him like Gerard is. Gerard can be a shoulder to lean on, maybe. But at the same time, Gerard can’t know. No one can know. He doesn’t want anyone to know, he wants it to be a secret, for only him to know, and him alone. 

The fact that Gerard _does_ know is not good. He wants this to be a secret he takes to his grave and now the closest person to him on the whole goddamn planet apart from his mother knows his biggest secret ever. And he can’t even tell his own mother, because she would rain hell upon everything in her path. Gerard might do the same.

Looking at him now, Gerard has murder in his eyes. He has fury, vengeance, all the makings of a warpath in his future. Gerard is a very passionate person, that has been clear from the get go. Gerard is one of the worst people to know his secret, because Frank’s sure that if he were to find out who, then Morgan may never breathe right again. 

Frank doesn’t want that. It’s not like he doesn’t want Morgan eating through a tube for the rest of his life, because that is definitely a fantasy of Frank’s. He just doesn’t want to face the punishment for putting Morgan there, and he doesn’t want Gerard to either. He wants Morgan to suffer, wants him to suffer in the fields of punishment, wants him to push Sisyphus’ boulder up a mountain for the rest of eternity, but he is not willing to sacrifice his own life to make that happen. Murdering the guy is all well and good, until you have to live out your life in prison because of it. Morgan simply isn’t worth it.

“Frank,” Gerard pleads, wanting nothing more than to hold him, to kiss the pain away. Except maybe to see the head of whoever did this to Frank on spear. 

“Gerard, no one can know,” Frank says, finally gasping out, though it’s preceded and followed by sobbing.

“Frank, tell me who did it,” Gerard says.

“No,” Frank says, shaking his head. “It wouldn’t do any good.”

“But they hurt you,” Gerard says, a flame flashing in his eyes. Frank sees it, sees the trouble it’ll cause if Gerard knows. Gerard’s not a very angry or forceful person, but Frank can tell that if Gerard were to know, there’s a good chance he’d beat Morgan to an inch of his life. As much as Frank would love to see him hurt like that, to see a big black eye on his face, a bloody nose, maybe a couple teeth punched out, it wouldn’t do him any good. 

“There’s nothing to be done about what happened in the past,” Frank says, “nothing now can change what’s been done.”

“They deserve to pay.”

“Not in whatever way you’d make them.”

“Frank,” Gerard pleads, pain in his voice, that Frank is surprised to hear. It astounds him that Gerard would care so much for him. Gerard’s reaction is drastically different then the one he’d have expected to get from the composed, kind man he knows Gerard to be. He’s a nerd, passionate, and full of warmth, but now, he looks desperate for blood. Frank doesn’t want to give in to temptation. He cares a lot about Gerard, too much to let him ruin his own life by going after Morgan.

“Please just let it go,” Frank says.

“He’s on the team, isn’t he,” Gerard says, coming out of nowhere with the deduction skills Frank hadn’t anticipated him having. “That’s why you want to quit hockey, isn’t it?”

“Gerard…”

“Frank, if I can’t kill the guy, at least let me kick him off the team, let me get him expelled, let me-”

“Gerard, no one can know,” Frank says, shaking his head, still crying tears like a waterfall, an unstoppable force. “I don’t want anyone to know, not anyone.”

“Not even to make him pay?” Gerard asks, somewhat aghast. He should think Frank would want to see this guy fry more than anyone else would on the planet, even more than Gerard does. 

“But if he pays, I’d have to say why. I don’t want anyone to know what happened, not ever,” Frank says, and he doesn’t know how to phrase it in a way that doesn’t make him seem vapid. The fact of the matter is, it’s embarrassing. If everyone knew, Frank would be the boy who was raped. He doesn’t want that hanging over his entire hockey career. Then Frank remembers he won’t even have a hockey career after today, and this sends him spiraling through even more tears. These ones are guttural, obnoxiously loud, and the pain inside of them is transferrable to anyone who hears his howls. 

Gerard’s heart breaks tenfold. The sharp pain of it shoots through him with cruelty. Seeing Frank in pain is like being in pain himself. It’s actually just the same. Gerard doesn’t realize it until Frank looks up at him, but he’s got tears of his own running down his face. He shouldn’t be letting his guard down like this. No one should see his weakness in such an apparent way as Frank is seeing him now.

“Gerard,” Frank mutters, quietly, through tears that run down his face at an alarming rate, like it’s a race for which can fall off his face the fastest.

“Frank, I’m just so sorry,” Gerard says, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry.”

Without thinking about it, Frank grabs him, brings Gerard into a hug, a bone breaking, needy, and entirely consuming embrace. It’s not in a particularly romantic way, and Gerard isn’t delusional enough to think of it that way. It’s the kind of hug that you can tell Frank has been needing for days now, and he’s only now getting the chance to have it, which makes the grip stronger, the hunger for it a stabbing one. Frank needs to be held, right now, the fear of physical contact is outweighed by the need for someone else’s warmth. He needs Gerard, more than anyone else in the world, it’s Gerard who he needs. Gerard is the only person who can give him what he needs right now, someone to hold him.

Gerard hugs him back, thinking to himself, that he won’t ever let Frank go, not for anything. Never again.

It hits Frank now, of all the times that it could have hit him, it’s only now when it sinks in. He’s attempting to quit hockey. The one thing that keeps his life force gleaming. His everything. He’s trying to quit _hockey_. 

There were days when he would come home from a day of school, having been pushed into lockers, ignored by his peers, and sat alone at lunch tables. He would come home, strap on his ice skates, and let them take his pain away. There were snow days where Frank and Hayley would sweep up off all the ice on the pond by their houses, and they’d learn new tricks together, or perfect the ones they already knew. There were nights where Frank couldn’t sleep, he’d sneak out of the house, and the pond would be a hockey rink. The trees surrounding it would be the crowd around him, and Frank, well Frank would be Wayne Gretzky. 

Frank would hear his name spoken over the speakers during morning announcements, congratulating him for carrying the team to victory the night previously. His face was the only one of importance on all hockey photos in the school and in the newspaper. He’d be congratulated for his skill when he’d buy groceries. He has a fucking bench dedicated to him.

When he makes a goal, he flies. It’s a high that no drug could ever get you to. When his team wins a game, it’s like winning a season, every single time, every tiny win, they all mean the world to him. Simply being on the ice, playing against another team, especially a good team, one that doesn’t give up without a fight, it fuels him. Nothing makes him feel more alive like having ice beneath his skates. Nothing in the world.

Frank gasps out, desperate, hysterical. “I don’t want to, Gerard, I don’t want to.” How could it have taken this long? How is it possible that he let himself forget?

“Frank, it’s okay, you don’t need to. You don’t need to tell anyone. You don’t need to play hockey, it’s fine, I get it.” He means it, from the tips of his fingers to the middle of his heart, Gerard means it. Frank shouldn’t have to do anything he doesn’t want to do, not after what’s happened to him. If he doesn’t think he can play hockey, then fuck hockey. 

“No, Gerard,” Frank says shaking his head, and he pushes Gerard away from him only so much that he can look into Gerard’s eyes, which aren’t quite as red and sunken as his are, but they definitely expose his insides. “I don’t want to quit, Gerard. I can’t. I-I love hockey. I love it, Gerard, hockey is… it’s _mine_.” 

Gerard doesn’t know if he likes Frank’s decision or not. Frank shouldn’t be pressured into anything that he doesn’t want to do. If he doesn’t think he can play hockey anymore, or if he doesn’t want to, then hockey is off the table. But there’s something in Frank’s eyes, a fear that is unmatched even by Frank’s fear of Morgan. Frank is afraid of going on _without_ hockey just as much as he is afraid of going on with it. He’s never known a life without hockey, how can he just give it up?

Gerard understands though. Everything has been taken away from Frank. His sense of safety, his happiness, his future. Hockey can’t be taken from him as well. Frank needs to keep some part of himself safe, and this is the biggest part that he has, letting it die would only be a testament to how much Morgan took away from him.

“Do what you need to do, Frank,” Gerard says, looking back into Frank’s eyes, resting his head on Frank’s. They’re so close now, barely an inch between their lips. It would be so easy to just break the distance entirely. Gerard can feel Frank’s breath, unsteady and short, barely any intake to be had. 

“He can’t take away hockey too,” Frank says in a firm way, despite the tears falling from his face and the hesitancy of his voice. 

“Then show him your strength,” Gerard whispers. Frank nods, before collapsing again, rooking his head into Gerard’s neck, not afraid to let himself be vulnerable. Gerard closes his eyes, pulls Frank tighter to him, allows everything. As hard as it is for the both of them, this is where they need to be. Frank in Gerard’s arms, and Gerard in his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey so, some of you might know I'm having a rough time right now, which is why this chapter took so long. I really do appreciate those of you still reading, and I wish this hadn't taken so long. Thank you so much for your continued support, and thank you for sticking with me.


	30. The Art of Being

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What makes a person who they are?

Water drips down his face as he stands hunched over the sink. The droplets plop into the basin with faint sounds, which can’t be heard over the sound of his heavy breath.

He can’t rationalize anything. He looks at his face in the mirror and he sees fury, anger, murderous rage in the eyes that look back to him. It’s not just on his face. It’s in his heart. He’s never been so angry, so furious, so bloodthirsty in his life.

Gerard wants nothing more than to viciously murder whoever hurt Frank. 

And he knows who did it.

Gerard makes eye contact with himself, seeing red eyes, and damp, shiny black hair which he can’t keep out of his face. All he can think about are various ways he could go about killing him. Sneak into his dorm, wouldn’t be that hard, Pete lives down the hall, he’d just ask to be invited over. He could creep up on him during practice, and cut his throat from behind. Gerard could even intercept him on his way to class. He could strangle the guy, beat him to death, stab him, bludgeon him, push him off a high structure, shoot him in the face, drown him, set him on fire… he’d be glad to do any or all of the above. 

Whatever the means, Gerard has so much access to Morgan. Morgan’s life is nothing but putty for Gerard to control, he has absolute power over the boy. In all fairness, he has absolute power over most of the people he knows, he’s just not dumb enough to use it. He wouldn’t want to. There’s no one Gerard hates so much as to kill them. Sure, he’s not overly fond of his old chemistry professor or of that one lady who didn’t hold the door for him last week when he held the door for her, but he’s not about to kill either of them. 

Morgan however, is a different story. 

Morgan hurt Frank, he hurt Frank in a way that no one should ever be allowed to, and surely no one should be allowed to continue living on after committing such a terrible act, and for that there is no doubt in Gerard’s mind that he deserves to die. Morgan should be six feet under, down much further than even that, and he should be made to suffer. Maybe he should be buried alive so he has time to think about what he did as his death grows imminent. 

Gerard wants to make him suffer so much, and for Frank, he wouldn’t fucking care that he’d be spending likely the rest of his life in jail for first degree murder. Morgan would deserve it. And it would be worth it. 

There’s no doubt in Gerard’s mind that he _would_ kill Morgan if Frank asked. He wouldn’t question it, and honestly, he wouldn’t need Frank to even ask him to do it. Gerard would do it for his own sake. He’d put a bullet in that boy’s brain because it would please him. There wouldn’t an ounce of doubt or of regret. 

But the fact of the matter is that Frank didn’t ask him to kill the guy. Quite the opposite in fact. Frank begged Gerard _not_ to hurt him, withheld his name so that Gerard wouldn’t go after him. 

Frank has his reasons, though Gerard doesn’t necessarily like them. He does understand them. Frank is embarrassed, and that’s fair, for someone in his position. Gerard doesn’t think that Frank should feel the need to be, because he didn’t do anything wrong, but there’s nothing he could say that would actually take Frank’s feelings away. 

He doesn’t want anyone else to know. That, Gerard does get. Frank doesn’t even want Gerard to know, and he’s probably not comfortable with the fact that Gerard does. Gerard doesn’t like that Frank is embarrassed about it, but he does get why he would want to keep it a secret. It’s not something you want the whole world to know about you. Perhaps because people will pity you. It’s fair. Gerard doesn’t like it, but it’s fair. 

In any case, whether Gerard likes it or not, Frank asked him not to. Frank begged and pleaded not to make a big deal out of it, not to go after who did it. That is something that surpasses all other reasons. Frank asking Gerard not to is what he needs to stop himself from doing what he sorely wants to do. Gerard can’t kill Morgan, Frank asked him not to. He will do as Frank asks. 

That’s the thing about people asking you to do something, or opposingly, to ask you not to do something. You kind of have to do as they ask or otherwise you’re an asshole. Otherwise you’re someone like Morgan. 

Gerard gazes at himself in the mirror, hating himself for feeling shitty, because he doesn’t know what shitty feels like. He doesn’t want to know. But he would take it any day if it meant sparing Frank of this.

When Gerard was a little kid, he was petrified of getting flu shots. They scared him shitless. Any type of needle scared the fuck out of him. They still do. He cried, kicked, screamed, threw the temper tantrum to end all, and he’d have to get the shot in the end. But his mom would hold his hand, keep him in her lap, pet his hair, and tell him with the utmost sincerity that she wished she could get the shot for him. She told him so many times how she would do anything for him to not have to be in pain, even for the few seconds the flu shot would take. 

Gerard gets it. He understands what she means. He doesn’t want to experience what Frank went through by any means. Not for a second does he want to know. But he would take that bullet for Frank if it meant sparing him. 

It’s hard to say why that is. Gerard’s known Frank for around two months now, but he’s the best goddamn friend he’s ever had. He’s also the love of his life which plays a huge role in things. 

Gerard would do anything for Frank not to have experienced what he did, and if that meant going through it on his behalf, he would gladly do so. He would gladly endure that pain. 

Sick of seeing his own reflection, Gerard turns away, walks out of the bathroom and into the tiny space of his living room. The air outside of the bathroom is fresh, cold, entirely different from the muggy, after shower air of the bathroom. It’s like an awakening, stepping back out into the world after being outside of it for so long. 

Gerard paces the small space of his living room, walking from one end of the couch and then the other, which is essentially the width of the entire room. He can’t get Frank out of his mind, and for once, it’s not in the way that he would want it to be. It almost sickens him to think of Frank the way he usually would, because it’s just not the time, and it’s certainly not his place. 

Frank is something else, he’s this ethereal sort of life force. He’s unstoppable, he’s lightning, and thunder, and rain. He’s the moon and the earth, but mainly the sun, because Gerard knows that everything revolves around him, not least of all him. 

He does something to Gerard. He makes him weak, makes his bones fragile, makes his heart beat at a dangerous rate. He doesn’t know how Frank does what he does. Frank is superhuman, alluring, and magical. 

It’s cliché and it’s been said before, but love songs never had this much clarity before now. Gerard always thought people were overhyping the realism in a love song, that there was no way all these beautiful similes and phases could ever be anything but glorified oversimplifications. But fucking hell if he doesn’t know what Ed Sheeran’s talking about now. 

Why does the best person in the world have to endure the worst thing you can possibly go through? What trick of fate is it that someone as pure as Frank has to go through this? Why, of all people, did it have to be Frank? 

Life isn’t fair, people always say this. Life will never be fair. Why can’t it be _kind_ though? Life doesn’t have to be fair, but does it have to be cruel? Is there no other alternative to this? Life kicks, bites, punches, scratches, and now it has to ruin too. What does one have to do to at least be treated politely?

Gerard’s head darts up when there’s an echoing sound of knocking coming from his front door. It’s vigorous and heavy, then it stops like someone was in a hurry, and then just gave up. Gerard walks towards the door, feeling wary, because he’s not in a very personable mood. He peers through the peephole to see probably the only person in the world who he would want to see on the other side. 

Gerard opens the door to Frank, who’s a little wet, but not overly so, indicating to Gerard that it must be raining, but not particularly hard, since it’s about a mile walk from Gerard’s apartment to Frank’s dorm. Gerard isn’t certain on the time, but it’s got to be past eleven at the very least, which is a few hours past appropriate for people to go knocking on your door. Unless of course you’re Frank, in which case, you’re always allowed to come knocking on Gerard’s door. 

Frank is shivering from the rain, he’s only got a light sweatshirt on, which is damp, probably making him even colder than he would be without it. The cold cases him in, embraces and strangles him. Gerard wants to banish that, to give Frank his own warmth.

“Frank,” Gerard says, worried, because whatever Frank has come here for past eleven at night can’t be good. 

“Hi,” Frank says sheepishly, and he then looks down at the door frame below him, unwilling to make eye contact with Gerard for some reason. 

“Frank, are you okay?” Gerard asks. He knows the answer. How can Frank be okay? 

Franks shrugs, and he looks up with trepidation. His hair has a gleam of rainwater to it, but it looks to be dry, for the most part. Gerard wants to run his hands through it, wants to pull Frank closer to him. He wants to get Frank into some dryer clothes and he wants to hold him closely until Frank falls asleep. He wants to help Frank, wants to give Frank his everything. 

Frank looks back down before he speaks and the cracking of his voice indicates that Frank is struggling to hold back tears, which only makes Gerard feel miserable. “I didn’t know where to go.” If Gerard feels miserable just looking at him, he can’t even fathom how miserable Frank must be. 

“My door is always open for you,” Gerard says, and he stands back, beckoning Frank in so that they’re not standing in the hallway any longer where anyone can peer out. The majority of the people living in this apartment are college students, and Frank would probably dissolve into the floorboards if someone were to see him right now.

Frank walks in, looking relieved, but the relief doesn’t outweigh the look of pain on his face, and it’s not fair. Gerard hates it, he hates that Frank is sad, it pisses him off like nothing else has ever pissed him off because the thing is, Frank should never be depressed. Frank should never be sad. Frank should be happy, and Gerard wishes he had the power to make that happen. 

Gerard wishes that he was the cure. Gerard wishes that he could take it all away. He wishes that he could be the cure for Frank. He wants Frank to smile every time he sees Gerard. If it were possible, he wishes he could pull the curtains up, reveal the sunlight to him, and to wash that pain away. 

Gerard isn’t that. Gerard loves Frank, he loves him with all of his heart, but he’s not a cure to anything. He doesn’t think there is a cure to Frank feeling this way, but surely if there was, he would find it, scour the earth for it, fight tooth or nail for Frank. And he wouldn’t need a thank you from him. But there is no cure to Frank feeling this way. Frank is sad. Frank is depressed. Frank needs love and support and he just needs someone to be there for him, and if Gerard is just someone to be there for him, then he’ll be here. For all of it. For everything. Even if Gerard doesn’t have a cure, he’ll do his best to make the pain lesser. 

So what if Frank never loves him back? At least he gets to be close to Frank. At least he gets to experience Frank. If he never loves him back that would suck, but it’s not the end of the world. Gerard will devote his heart to Frank and it’ll kill him not for Frank to love him back, but killing him is better than killing Frank. 

Frank stands in the middle of Gerard’s living room. He doesn’t do anything, and from what Gerard sees, he doesn’t look at anything. He just stands. He’s nothing. He looks a lot like he had when Gerard had come to his dorm yesterday. To be fair, Gerard hadn’t really seen much of him, as Frank was lying in his bed, shrouded in blankets, but from what he did see, Frank was just as vacant. Frank looks like he’s not there, and it’s hard to watch. 

It’s almost like it’s too hard for Frank to be conscious. Like he’s vacated himself entirely to spare himself the pain of having to be present. The mind is a bit of an escape to reality, but there’s a certain chasm in it as well. You can only escape for so long before everything else tries to chase you down. Frank might be at the risk of that, or maybe that’s exactly what’s going on in his brain right now. He’s gone from reality only to be wrapped in the clutches of something far worse: his own mind. 

“Frank, I-” Gerard starts, but Frank interrupts him, not with a sound, but just by collapsing into him. It doesn’t seem to happen in a moment, or in anything else for that matter either. It just is. It’s a thing that isn’t, and then it’s a thing that is. Frank is in his arms, and Gerard is holding him up, as if letting go will drop him down an abyss he’s been hanging off of for ages. 

Gerard is a rock. Frank is an ocean. Gerard may hold him back, but it can only be for so long. He will die sturdy, though. He will face the oncoming wave. He will let Frank destroy him.

Frank makes these rather unattractive sniffling sounds. He rubs his forehead against Gerard’s shoulder. He nudges it a few times, as if he needs to remind himself that Gerard is still there. That the person holding him is in fact a physical presence. 

Gerard doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He doesn’t know where to put them, because he doesn’t know how not to scare Frank. He’s acutely aware of the fact that Frank is vulnerable, that this is a precarious edge on which he now stands. There’s a lot of moves he can make which would be entirely wrong. He could put his hand somewhere completely innocent, like his shoulder bone or the middle of his spine. But what if Morgan touched him there? What if something he thinks is purely innocent is anything but? Frank is a delicate piece of china which Gerard’s afraid of handling, for fear he’ll break.

Gerard settles with putting his hands on the small of Frank’s back. He feels Frank squeezing himself tighter to Gerard, trying to pull relief from Gerard’s body into his. It might work because Frank’s breathing grows just a touch steadier, though his crying doesn’t subside. 

“I don’t- I don’t know what… what to do?” Frank says, but he also asks it, like he needs a response, but it’s clear he doesn’t expect one.

“You move on.”

“How can I move on?” Frank asks. “Where is there to go?”

“That’s something you need to ask yourself,” Gerard says, “I know it sounds cliché. But what is there that I can tell you to do? What is it I could say that would help you decide who you need to be? It’s not up to me, Frank. It’s your choice, and only you will know the answer.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know that there is anything,” Frank says, his words mumbled into Gerard’s shoulder, not really coming through, but Gerard knows them, like they’re his own. 

“What is it that you know you want?” Gerard asks. “You want hockey, right? You want that, but what else do you want?”

“I don’t…” Frank shakes his head, as he removes it from Gerard’s shoulder, and then he begins to inch away, and Gerard lets go of him instinctively. He can’t get too clingy, even though he doesn’t want to let Frank go. He definitely can’t put Frank in a situation where he feels trapped, because it would probably be the worst thing he could ever do to him. “I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know what I’m doing at all. I don’t even know who the fuck I am anymore, Gerard.”

“You’re Frank,” Gerard says, confused. Who else could he be? He may not be the Frank Gerard initially fell in love with, but he’s the Frank that Gerard continues to be in love with. 

“I’m not! I’m not, like… I’m not Frank. I’m just, like I’m something that was left behind of Frank. I’m like those tea leaves that get stuck at the bottom of the teacup after all the rest is gone. I’m just, like, I’m this sort of sludgy mess. I don’t know who I am anymore, if who I was is still buried deep down inside of me somewhere or if that person is gone. I just don’t know where to go from here. I don’t know.”

“You want to play hockey, right?” Gerard asks. “Tell me if you don’t, because that’s fine, it’s like totally fine, if you can’t, or if you don’t want to-”

“I want to Gerard, that’s the thing. I want to more than anything, I want hockey. Because like, throughout all my life, whenever things have been shitty, or whenever I’ve thought life was going to beat me down, I just, I wouldn’t let it, because I’ve had hockey. I’ve had skating. Like, skating, it’s everything, it’s more, it’s who I am. Gerard, skating is like my DNA. I always skate, it’s like, it’s always been my solution to everything. I remember being just, like, so fucking miserable in middle school. I was this sort of… I wasn’t a bullied kid or anything. No one hated me. I just wasn’t… I wasn’t there. Like it’s not even that I was invisible either, because people saw me, I mean, I was a pretty smart kid and I was already pretty good at hockey and everyone knew it, but they just, didn’t care? And it continued throughout high school. I just was this sort of like, I was this _thing_. I was just there? I mean, and people acknowledged me, they even seemed to like me the few times I talked to people, but like, no one cared enough to actually know me. And it’s not like I wasn’t trying. But I was just, I was no one. The people who were maybe nicer to me, sort of just walked away from me if I ever tried to be… to just, to _be_.

“Can you, like, can you just imagine being lonely all the time. No one really liking you, no one really even thinking twice about you at all. I just, I was nothing to no one. And because I didn’t have any friends, I had to, I had to find something else. And that was skating. And I guess you already know that I’m a figure skater, though I don’t know how the fuck you found out, but it’s me, it’s me about as much as hockey is. It’s skating. Skating his me. And this guy he’s just like, he’s tried to take that away from me. He’s tried to amputate me. And why? Like, because I pissed him off, and he’s just… he’s just taken a knife and he’s pulled out all my insides because I guess he doesn’t want me to have happiness. But skating is me. Skating is me. You can’t take that away. Like, you could get the sharpest tool, you could scrape everything in me away, but like, you can’t take away skating. It would be like trying to take away my skin.”

“Frank, when I look at you, I don’t see only hockey. I know what you want me to say is that hockey is who you are, and in part, yeah, it’s a huge _part_ of who you are. But it’s not _all_ you are,” Gerard says. “You’re… you’re an epic in the first few chapters, something Homer started jotting down somewhere, and you’ve not even begun your adventures. You’re a symphony. You’re an enormous world, full of a lot of amazing things, and hockey has always been at the forefront. Skating has always been your go to, but that doesn’t mean it makes you. _You_ make you. Above all, you’re you, and you are the best at it no matter what path you choose to take. You might be a hockey player, but you’re also funny, and you’re caring, and you’re passionate – compassionate. You’re just, you’re so many things, and hockey is only one of the things. Skating is only a piece of you. It’s not all of you.”

“What if I want it to be?” Frank asks.

“Hockey is good. Don’t let yourself think I don’t believe that. Hockey is amazing and wonderful. But it’s not all there is. If you continue to play hockey, great, the world is given one of the greatest players it’ll ever see. If not, the world will see one of the greatest lawyers, or accountants, or chefs, or musicians, or actors, or whatever it is you chose to be, it’ll see the greatest of those too. You’re Frank. You’re not hockey. You’re Frank. Let yourself be whoever you need to be, no matter what it is you choose to do.”

It’s a little baffling how Gerard manages to put emotion into his words in a way that effects Frank the way it does. It’s definitely a sign that Gerard is his soulmate and one true love. Frank can’t believe he still has the capacity to think that way, but that’s something you really can’t take away from him. No matter the circumstances, no matter what Morgan might have done, there’s one thing he hasn’t managed to do. He hasn’t taken away Frank’s hunger for affection. He’s changed the game a little bit, that’s true, because now it’s quite a bit scarier, now it’s going to be a slower process, a more difficult one, but he hasn’t managed to take that away from him. Morgan did a lot of things, took a lot of him away, but he didn’t take away the way Frank feels about Gerard. He’s changed the chemistry of it, but he hasn’t taken it away.

Of course, Gerard’s got a point, like he always does. Gerard’s not just here for his looks. Gerard’s also kind of the only person in the world that Frank feels comfortable talking to right now at all. Gerard’s smart. That’s one thing you may not notice until you get to know him, but Gerard is one of the wisest people Frank’s ever met. He’s also overly empathetic, and it reads in his face. Gerard has the ability to feel what others feel, though he definitely can’t fathom the expanse of Frank’s pain, but he definitely sees it, he’s aware of it. Gerard looks into you.

Frank hasn’t said anything to Ray yet, he doesn’t know how to. He hasn’t spoken with Pete, Mikey, Travie, Patrick. No one. The only people Frank’s had verbal contact with are Brendon and Gerard. Brendon’s just not the same. It’s not like Frank doesn’t trust him, but Frank doesn’t want to hug Brendon. He doesn’t want Brendon to give him life advice or to tell him that it’ll be alright. Even though the two of them went through the same thing, Gerard is the only person he has an emotional connection to who can actually make him feel better. 

But in the end, Gerard isn’t the answer. He doesn’t have all the answers either. He’s just Gerard. He’s sweet, kind, and he’s warm, but he doesn’t hold the answers Frank needs. Nor does Gerard miraculously make him better either. It’s not untrue to say that Frank feels less shitty with Gerard around, merely having company is a relief in his state, but that doesn’t mean Gerard can take it all away. They both know this. 

Frank has never considered that he might be someone else underneath the hockey, or that he might have something more. He’s used to it being his thing. It always has been. He’s got hockey, and he’s got figure skating. He’s caught between two opposing worlds, and now he’s been thrown out of one. But it’s not a matter of picking sides. It’s one or both. Frank loves both, not because it’s what he’s good at, because it makes him happy. He couldn’t ask for more than that.

But there has to be something more to him than just that, and he supposes he should know those lines, and be able to find them. 

Frank really likes punk music, he could see himself rocking out, managing bands, running a club. He also really likes cop shows, he could see himself solving mysteries, studying crime scenes, analyzing evidence. He really likes horror movies, he could see himself directing them, writing the scripts, designing the sets. He really likes animals, he could see himself rescuing them, caring for them, treating them. He likes kids, he could see himself teaching, counseling, protecting. He likes helping people, he could see himself advising, treating, giving people a chance. Frank likes the environment, he could see himself raising awareness, fighting, finding solutions.

Frank loves figure skating. He can see himself competing. He loves hockey. He can see himself playing. 

“I choose hockey,” Frank says, breaking the long silence at last. “I want hockey. It’s what I want, and not because it’s what I know, but because it’s what I love. I love hockey. To my grave I’ll love it. Nobody, nothing, never will I ever let that be taken from me.”

“Then choose it, Frank,” Gerard says.

“I’m going to need a little time to get back on my feet, though,” Frank says, turning away from Gerard because he doesn’t want to look Gerard in the eyes and say that to him, not considering how much it must suck for Gerard not to have his star player on the team. “And I need help. I can barely fucking breathe when people so much as touch me. How do I go about playing a contact sport like hockey?”

“I’ll do my best to help you,” Gerard says, “Don’t worry about how long it takes. Worry about recovering _well_ , not recovering _quickly_.”

Frank turns back to look at Gerard, and it’s like seeing an angel. He’s got heavenly light coming off of him. How does he _do_ that? 

Frank doesn’t care. Gerard’s not like anyone else. That’s clear for everyone to see. Gerard’s special. 

Frank realizes all of a sudden how much he wants Gerard. His bones become sore, and his head starts to pound with the ache of longing. It makes him gasp in pain which can be accredited to the fact that Frank is already in pain.

Frank closes the space between them again, wrapping his arms around Gerard and burying his head in Gerard’s shoulder. Gerard is warm, soft, sturdy. He’s what Frank needs. Frank presses tears he’s trying to suppress into the sleeves of Gerard’s shirt, mumbling something unintelligible that Gerard can’t make out. 

What Frank mumbles is “I love you.”

The equally indecipherable response he gets back is “I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a while, my life has become a busy one. I'm glad for everyones continued support of this fic. I genuinely thank you all so much.


	31. Standing Still

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank and Gerard are fucking adorable.

“I know it’s stupid,” Frank says. “I’ve done this a hundred times. Thousands. Yet for some fucking reason, I can’t even skate in straight fucking line.”

“Frank, it’s not stupid. You’ve been through some shit, I’m not expecting you to pick everything up like you did before this happened.”

“But I’m a skater,” Frank groans, stopping in front of Gerard, who’s leaning over the edge of the box, looking at him, watching Frank mercilessly mess up the things that peewee hockey players can do. “He was a skater boy, yada yada.”

“So what? That doesn’t mean it’s easy after what you’ve been through. Mikey started hockey when he was about six or seven, alright, because I was on a team and he wanted to be like me, so he started skating, but he was absolutely shit at it at first, you know, because all kids are. He was skating at this park near our house which has an ice rink which was honestly garbage, the ice was uneven and there were usually frozen leaves and branches and shit in the ice, so it was pretty dangerous if we’re being honest. Well, Mikey went skating there and he must have like, hit something in the ice because he went flying into the barrier. You just heard this big ass thud and then he’s lying on the ground, bleeding fucking everywhere. Turns out he broke his nose, it was pretty nasty. After that, he never wanted to skate again, right? He completely disowned the sport, and he was really little, that kind of thing makes an impression so I never thought I’d see him on the ice again after that. But eventually, I was practicing with my team and Mikey decided to give it one more go. It was about a year later, but he got himself some skates and he went back out there and he did it. He just skated. And ever since then, he hasn’t taken his skates off.”

“Gerard, I didn’t hit a wall. I didn’t get hurt _from_ hockey.”

“Oh, you know the point I’m trying to make. I’m not good at metaphors, I have a degree in art, Frank, not writing.”

Frank smiles at him a little bit, pausing a little longer than he really should just to look at Gerard. Gerard’s dressed in all black, because he seems to think that “sneaking” into the hockey arena at two in the morning is an occasion for it. That, or it’s the warmest outfit he had to go hang out in an ice rink which, believe it or not, is pretty cold. Might have something to do with the ice.

He looks fucking cute in it. He’s got a long black knit type sweater which looks like the perfect quality to steal from your boyfriend so you can smell him when he’s not around. Gerard looks, somehow, a little more proper than usual. Normally, Gerard’s clothes are baggy and greying, but he looks cleaner today. It’s an achievement on any given day if Gerard looks clean, considering the boy showers once a week, but today must have been that once a week. 

In all fairness, Frank hasn’t showered in a while either, and now he’s working himself up into a sweat from practicing. He’s going to smell worse than Gerard usually does. 

This was his idea, so if Frank’s not happy with his progress it’s on him. He’s been afraid of the ice, almost like it holds a monster waiting to devour him. That monster is likely his own memories. There are echoes of his memories all around the walls of this building. He can’t step or look anywhere without seeing things. Not all of them are bad.

Over by the penalty box is where he first met Ray, who stopped to say hello to Frank when he first arrived here. In the seats near the entrance is where he first saw Gerard, disheveled, unclean, baggy old Gerard. In this room he’s won games, lost games, fallen over, pushed others over. He’s only been here for a little while but it’s riddled with his presence.

Frank loses himself in the moment. He’s always the best skater when he’s not thinking about it. When he just is, rather than tries. You always run into the problem of trying too hard when you put too much thought into things. It’s easier to let yourself unwind and let yourself be. 

Gerard’s insides swirl in a vat of longing. Frank is so unearthly gorgeous. He’s so effortlessly talented. He’s everything Gerard wants but can’t have.

Frank skates with the beauty and grace of a paint brush on a canvas. Gerard likes to consider himself a fairly good artist, but he’s nothing in comparison to what Frank is. Frank is some celestial being, an angel in disguise, and he doesn’t even realize it.

Gerard knows he means something to Frank, and in turn, Frank knows he means something to Gerard. But neither is entirely sure just how much they mean to the other. 

Frank stops in front of Gerard who’s there physically but his mind is lost somewhere in the metaphysical. He looks at Gerard, because Gerard isn’t paying any attention at all, and it’s the perfect moment for Frank to get to look at him and just stare, just gawk, just wish and want. It takes several moments for Gerard’s mind to return to this plane of existence, but when he does he looks at Frank looking at him and blushes a little bit. 

Frank bites his lip before he skates away, full speed, just to see how fast he can run away from his problems. As it turns out, quite quickly. 

From the outside looking in, this is an extremely non-heterosexual dynamic, but neither of them is capable of seeing that themselves. Frank just hopes one of these days he’ll wear himself out of this crush. That eventually he’ll find someone who he has an actual chance with and not his straight assistant coach. 

The speeding train of his own mind is interrupted by Gerard’s voice. “Frank your form’s all wrong. If you skate like that, I’d be able to knock you over with a feather,” he shouts at him, which is his way of showing affection on the ice. If Gerard doesn’t yell out criticisms it means you’re doing so poorly he doesn’t think you’re worthy of pointers. It’s nice to know that things haven’t changed that much, no matter what’s happened. 

Frank stops several feet away from where Gerard stands and calls over him, “When was that last time you skated, Gerard?” It’s a lot to hear criticism from a guy who you’ve never actually seen do something. Why should Frank listen to him if Gerard’s never even on the ice?

“Uh, right around the time I took this job,” Gerard says, not expecting to be called out on it right now, least of all by Frank. 

“Junior year?” Frank asks.

Gerard shrugs, “Sounds about right. I went once over Christmas break, back at the ice rink near my house, but I haven’t been skating since then.”

“Seriously?” Frank asks, looking at Gerard, aghast. “Why? Didn’t it hurt you to stop? Like, I get that you didn’t want to play hockey anymore, but to stop skating altogether?”

“I guess it just didn’t make sense to me to spend too much time worrying about my own skills. I don’t mean for this team or this game to be about me, I want it to be about the sport, or how good this team is at what they do. I just got too focused on that.”

Frank doesn’t stew on his words much before saying, “I want to see you skate.”

Gerard makes a sound that definitely couldn’t be considered excitement, and looks around the rink like he’s trying to find something which he could use as an escape. He stares at the barrier in front of him for a little while as opposed to staring at Frank. Staring at anything besides Frank is easier, because Frank is beautiful enough to burn your eyes out if you look at him a bit too long. 

“It’s been a really long time Frank,” Gerard says, “I don’t even have skates.”

“Uh, yeah you do,” Frank says, eyeing Gerard skeptically. “They’re in your office, I’ve seen them.”

“Those are really old.”

“You wore them only two years ago.”

“What if they don’t fit?”

“Your feet have grown six sizes in the past two years?”

“You’re not going to let me make an excuse, are you?”

“Skating is life, Gerard,” Frank says, grinning back at him. Gerard sighs, but he doesn’t refuse. Frank grins as he stands up, walks towards the doors and then disappears behind them.

Frank waits for a moment, then realizes it’s going to take a while, so instead does a few laps around the rink which is a bit of a workout for someone running around a track, but when you’re skating it takes less than a minute to do a full lap. 

Frank can’t believe he ever considered giving this up. Even without a hockey stick, this is everything. Being on the ice, being completely at peace and his own, and without anyone else in the world to look down on him or to outmatch him. He’s never met anyone who could outmatch him. Maybe someday if he ever actually makes it to the NHL. Like it’s a possibility that he won’t. He’s not going to give up until his name is on the jerseys of little kids everywhere. Not until he’s up for discussion on ESPN, first and last name, talking about his games, not about scandals he’s anonymously part of. Frank won’t give up until he’s captain, until he touches the Stanley Cup, until he retires to coach the Devils when he’s too old to play for them. 

His dreams are in the stars, and he won’t stop until he’s one of them. Never. Not for anything, not for anyone. Fuck everything else. He’s been hurt, he’s been hurt a lot, and he’s not going to deny that. It’s hard sometimes, and when you get knocked down, it’s hard to pick yourself up again, but Frank won’t allow himself to stay out. He’s got too much in front of him to stand still. 

There’s a sound from the opposite of the rink, and Frank turns his head to watch as Gerard steps out of the locker room, hesitantly, dull blades beneath him. His skates themselves look somehow antique due to infrequent use and the way he wears them only doubles that appearance. He’s like Bambi learning to walk.

“Fucking hell, I thought this was like riding a bike,” Gerard says, stepping very carefully, and slowly, over towards the wall so that he can hop over onto the ice. 

“You’re not on the fucking ice yet, Gerard, that’s probably why it’s not easy.”

“Shut up,” Gerard says, meager annoyance in his voice. Frank snickers and feels himself moving backwards on his skates as he watches Gerard hesitantly make his way over. Frank is trying hard not to laugh at him, really he is, but it’s hard not to. Gerard is laughably bad at so much as walking on skates. They’re not made for carpet, or for concrete, but it’s not _that_ hard to walk a couple of feet. 

“Okay,” Gerard says, pleased with himself when his hands meet the wall and he can pull himself onto it, but not quite over it yet. He swings his legs over, and then there’s nothing but mere inches between Gerard’s feet and the ice and all Frank can do is wait, and tantalize over how he’s going to react to actually being on the ice for the first time in about two years. 

Frank has never, apart from the first six years of his life, been off the ice for that long. Even through a few broken bones Frank has gotten back onto the ice within “6 weeks” which is what his doctor advised but he actually got back on at about 4 weeks because he cared more about skating than he did about healing. In a way, he still does. Skating is always first. Everything else is second. School, life, friends, they’re all second tier after hockey. Except for his emotional life right now, which is numbers one through infinity, unfortunately. He does believe that hockey, or at least skating, is instrumental in his own recovery because hockey is the most important thing to him. His mental health literally can’t improve if he deprives himself of what he loves. 

“You’re doing amazing,” Frank says, waiting and he gives Gerard a bright smile which Gerard glances at, but has to look away immediately afterward, sure the beauty of it is going to blind him when combined with the dazzling bright white of the ice. 

“Fuck, the things I’ll do for you,” Gerard whispers to himself, not loud enough so that Frank can hear it. Gerard lowers first one foot than the other down onto the ice, hands not letting go of the barrier behind him. He teeters carefully, trying to find his balance.

The ice is different underneath him, but entirely the same. It’s familiar in a way that food always tastes the same no matter how long it’s been since you’ve had it. It’s like his moms cooking. He hasn’t lived at home for about five years now, but if he saw her roasted potatoes in front of him, he’d remember them like he had them yesterday.

Just remembering the feeling of the ice below him doesn’t mean he remembers entirely how to be at peace with it. He’s standing on literal blades, fine, sharp blades, on top of ice, a slippery surface. It’s an idiotic concept to begin with, and it’s been ages since he had the feeling of it. Merely remembering it is not enough for him to utilize the memories. 

Gerard, feeling bold, let’s go of the wall, gliding for a few seconds before one-foot slips in front of him. He doesn’t actually fall down but he does a dramatic dance around falling down before inevitably finding peace in a wide-legged stance.

“You look good,” Frank says, containing laughter.

“Fuck off, Iero,” Gerard replies. It doesn’t take him more than a minute to get the feeling of the ice under his feet in a way that he recognizes, and at a very rapid rate, he becomes familiar with it all over again. It welcomes him back, missing him as much as he missed it. He’s not going to be picking up where he left off, but he’ll give at least a ten-year-old a run for their money.

Frank watches him, gliding effortlessly across the arena like he’s an angel flying through the air. He’s an angel at least, Gerard won’t deny that. Frank skates backwards, watching Gerard grow comfortable, which doesn’t take too long, a relief to the both of them.

“You’re not too bad, you know,” Frank says smiling.

“Thanks,” Gerard responds, “I have been skating since before you were born.”

Frank scoffs. Gerard’s only about four years older than him, barely so. A small enough age gap that Frank could still date him. A small enough age gap that he could probably take Gerard home to his mother and she wouldn’t know he’s older. Hayley thought Frank and Gerard made sense. Frank thinks they make more sense than any other combination in the world. Gerard’s a loser and Frank’s a moron; they would live happily ever after.

“You ain’t shit on me, old man,” Frank says. Gerard, seeing this as a challenge, narrows his eyes. 

Thinking he’s some ice skating god who has no concept of easing himself back into a sport he’d abandoned two years ago, Gerard skates over towards Frank, or where Frank had been, before Frank is seamlessly skating to the opposite side of the rink, in a way that actually makes Gerard question whether his skates are actually on the ice or whether he’s simply flying just above it, in a magical dance that Gerard isn’t worthy of witnessing. 

Frank hardly needs any time at all to adjust to the skates once Gerard’s on the ice. Once Gerard’s out there, he makes it a point to prove he’s better. It’s not like they both don’t already know that, but he just wants it to be visibly obvious. Frank is the best skater he knows. 

Frank quite literally skates circles around Gerard. Gerard makes a grumbling sound before he tries to catch up to Frank, who just stops in front of him, kicking ice at his feet. 

“I guess we’ve proven that you’re not out of practice or anything,” Gerard says out of breath from moving a whole ten feet away from where he was a moment ago. “You just needed to prove you were better than me in order for you to pick yourself back up again.”

“It’s not a competition, but if it was, I’m winning,” Frank says grinning back at him.

Gerard grins, but frowns back at him. 

“Come on Gerard,” Frank says, feeling alive and animated for the first time in forever, as he flies across the ice as naturally as he always has. Gerard grins back at him, cold, red face beaming at this beautiful man who’s never looked more graceful than he does on the ice. Without his normal hockey bulk, just a sweater and gloves, Frank really looks like he was born out there. 

Gerard suddenly gets the urge to see Frank figure skating. He looks so graceful and natural on his hockey skates, unable to do tricks. What would it be like to see him actually flying, performing a dance across the ice. They’re such drastically different sports, one is aggressive, and sweaty, and clunky. The other is graceful, beautiful, _pretty_. Frank’s personality is the latter. It might mean he’s destined to it.

Gerard wonders just how amazing Frank is at it. He only ever got a glimpse, a sneak peek at that side of Frank. But what about when he knows someone’s watching? He’d probably be perfect either way, and even if he wasn’t, Gerard wouldn’t be able to tell. 

He wishes that Frank didn’t have to hide that part of who he is, but he knows there’s no ulterior option for him. Even Gerard had been something close to angry when he first saw Frank figure skating. He thinks that was mainly based on ignorance, he’d never known anything about figure skating before Frank. He just assumed that it must be easier, must be less grueling, because it always looks so flawless, so seamless. It never occurred to him that figure skating is like ballet. It looks easy, like anyone could do it, but very few people are actually capable of doing something as intricate and hard as figure skating. 

You bleed for figure skating. You don’t really bleed for hockey. You’ve got a couple of bruises, the occasional broken bone, or lost tooth. But you don’t bleed for it. Somehow, there’s a big difference.

“Are you going to just stand there with your mouth open or are you going to skate?” Frank asks him. He’s tempted to get out a couple of hockey sticks and a puck and really see how good Gerard still is, but he doesn’t think the time is quite right for that. Frank doesn’t really feel like he wants to play hockey right now, or wants to practice it. He just wants to skate. Nothing fancy, he just likes the breeze that flying through the air creates. He likes the speed and the balance and the way it makes him feel like he’s floating. 

Sometimes he thinks that’s all he really cares about with either sport. It’s not about hockey, and it’s not about figure skating. It’s about feeling powerful on the ice. There are a few ways to achieve that power. To have a hockey stick in hand, a sense of comradery on a team and a pride in winning a game. But there’s also the feeling of being beautiful, of moving in ways that make jaws drop, of looking flawless and effortless. Skating just makes him feel better. 

But hockey does mean a lot to him. He cares about the sport, feels physical emotions for the team and players he roots for. He cares so much. Hockey means everything in the world to him. And figure skating helps define him in so many ways as well. He doesn’t get the chance to be as open about that side of him but it doesn’t make it any lesser. 

Frank flies around the rink, in a mostly circular way, looking behind him every now and again to see Gerard doing an alright job as well. He definitely doesn’t look new to skating but he doesn’t look like an expert either. This is a guy who was admitted to the same school Frank was, on a hockey scholarship like Frank’s. To be fair, Gerard is also a legacy so he was getting in either way, but it’s hard for Frank to see the hockey star that Gerard used to be. 

Frank doesn’t actually know a whole lot about Gerard’s hockey career. He knows quite a bit about Gerard’s father, but not so much about him. He knows Gerard was a defenseman, and that his favorite hockey player was Scott Stevens, another defenseman who’s almost as famous for his fights with other players as he is for his skills. Frank wonders if that says anything about what kind of player Gerard was.

Frank’s also heard a lot of good things about Gerard’s time. People have never said he was the best on the team, but the vibe Frank has gotten was that he was close in skill to Morgan. He was damn good, and he might have been the best if he kept playing, but he wasn’t quite there. Frank wishes he could’ve seen it. He’d give anything to experience Gerard playing a real game.

Not paying attention, Frank doesn’t notice when Gerard comes barreling forward towards him. In an altogether Hannah Barbera fashion, Gerard collides with Frank, and his own weight pushes Frank over, both of them collapsing to the cold hard floor beneath them. It’s clearly Gerard’s fault, and he wouldn’t go about denying that. Gerard topples them both over which is the clearest sign, because Frank plays hockey, and therefor knows how to hit someone without falling over himself. What good is checking someone if you both go down? You’d get a penalty without even achieving something.

The fall itself is tedious, and lands an elbow in Frank’s ribcage which he’s surely going to be feeling in a few days. Frank makes a strangled sound, annoyed but not altogether angry. He manages to stop his head from crashing against the ice by holding his elbows out to catch him. Neither of them are wearing any protective padding, so it’d be a bad thing for both of them if Frank, already with the remainder of a head injury, hit his head on the ice. He’d definitely get that concussion he was worried about. Using his elbows to catch himself, he manages to spare himself from breaking his wrists also.

Gerard is completely unharmed by the fall as he has a very soft Frank to fall on top of. Ordinarily he wouldn’t complain, but he realizes that merely touching Frank is a slippery slope right now, so he feels way shittier about it than he needs to. 

Frank looks up, aches and pains running through his body at an alarming rate, as if racing to see what limbs they can stiffen up first. He sees Gerard blinking back at him from a few inches away, looking uncomfortable. It’s the closest Frank’s face has ever been to Gerard’s, or at least it feels like it has to be. There’s a breath between them, not even enough to satiate. 

Gerard looks into Frank’s eyes, and Frank looks back. There’s a very long moment. Long enough for Frank’s heart to beat into double digits. They look at each other, Frank glances down at Gerard’s lips, and Gerard takes a shaky breath that doesn’t do anything to alleviate his breathlessness. 

In a movie, this is where they’d kiss. This is where the two of them would realize they’ve both been in love with each other all this time, and they would kiss passionately before going back to Gerard’s apartment and fucking through the night. They would wake up next to each other and smile fondly at the other, then they’d kiss and the screen would fade to black. 

Except, they don’t have that, because it’s not a movie. Gerard awkwardly apologizes, and clambers off of Frank, falling instead against the ice, while Frank does his best to sit up, feeling a little different than he had before. 

Frank almost considers saying something, because it’s clear there’s a tension between the two of them. He almost asks Gerard if he’s going insane. Because sometimes it really does feel like there is something there. It feels like he’s not just delusional, but like Gerard might actually feel something for him in return. 

Instead, Frank just punches Gerard’s arm and says, “you fucking suck, man.”

“I- it’s been a few years. I’m really sorry,” Gerard replies, blushing. He doesn’t know what else to say. Frank laughs, it’s canned and it doesn’t really come from him, but he makes the sound happen. “I’m sorry,” Gerard repeats, watching as Frank stretches out his muscles, and rubs at a bruise forming on his elbow.

“Do you think they’ll need to chop it off?” Frank asks, lifting up his sleeve enough to show a tinge of purple on his arm.

Gerard evaluates it with mock seriousness. “Oh, surely.”

“Damn,” Frank groans, “and I wanted to compete on Wipeout. What am I going to do with only the one arm?”

“Hey man, the Paralympics are always an option.”

“You overestimate my skill,” Frank scoffs.

Frank is the first to stand up, and it’s probably a good thing it’s him, because he then attempts to help Gerard up, but Gerard is not quite accustomed to standing up while having literal knives attached to his feet. It takes them a couple of minutes for Gerard to become vertical again. It’s through no fault of Frank’s, and he doesn’t even let himself be pulled down by Gerard who seems to be attempting as much. 

“I’m pretty sure I’m done for the day,” Frank says, flexing his arm out still, because now it’s surging through some new pains caused by Gerard pulling his arm out of its socket a little bit. “Seeing as I’ve been fatally wounded and all.”

“Shut up,” Gerard says, still blushing, but he nods in agreement. He’s eager to get out of these skates and back onto the firm ground.

“Watch yourself, dude, or I’ll push you over,” Frank says, and he means it. He may be irreparably in love, but he’s also a teenager. There’s something universally appealing to watching someone fall over. One of the core crutches to millennials is watching AFV in shitty hotel rooms while your family vacations in South Dakota to see some fucking faces in a mountain, and somehow the best part of the trip is watching some grown ass man fall on his ass on a TV that’s deeper than the intelligence of the contestants on the show. To witness that in real life is a godsend if there ever was one.

“Maybe you could help me out of these skates instead?” Gerard asks, giving him his best syrupy smile, reminding Frank that he’s only so strong and can’t resist the perfection of him. 

“Yeah, alright,” Frank resigns, allowing Gerard to put an arm around him, and he guides him gently over to the box, before he hops over, then helps Gerard over with him. Somehow, Frank doesn’t seem to be all that bothered by the fact that Gerard drapes himself over Frank in order to walk. It doesn’t seem weird. It just seems normal. He knows he should be freaking out, and a month ago, he would be. But Gerard is his best friend, probably in the whole world, and it’s not weird like he knows it should be. It’s just Gerard, and it’s just him.

He does wish he could kiss him though. He wishes he could kiss his best friend. He knows if he did, and if Gerard reciprocated, the two of them would own the world. Because no one fits together as well as Gerard fits with Frank. The two of them are a seamless puzzle piece and no one else could ever compare. He would be able to do anything if Gerard was with him. 

Frank doesn’t get to kiss Gerard. The two of them walk all the way to Gerard’s office rather than changing their shoes in the locker room for obvious reasons. Frank refuses to step foot in that locker room. Sitting down in his desk chair, Frank watches Gerard switch from his skates into regular shoes. He can’t help but look at him. There’s nothing that isn’t gorgeous about Gerard. His sharp face, his pudgy belly, his thighs which make Frank’s mouth water. He’s perfect. There’s nothing Frank doesn’t love. Most of all he loves Gerard’s smile. And his eyes. 

Frank’s never considered himself to be a very vapid person, and Gerard is somehow proof of it. Gerard’s not the cutest guy in the world, and Frank knows that vaguely somewhere inside of himself. He knows that Gerard isn’t even the cutest guy on the team. But he is. He is so far more beautiful, and it’s because he’s who he is. It’s because he could talk about comic books for five hours, and because he only wears one pair of ugly white converse, and because he has pizza boxes stacked to the ceiling in his apartment and because he has paint stains underneath his fingernails, and because all of his clothes are too big and too grey. Gerard is simply the best because Gerard is Gerard. 

Once in proper shoes, the two of them make their way out of the office, walking through the dark hall outside, which is lighted only by the streetlamps and moon seeping through the floor to ceiling windows. Frank watches him, he tries not to make it obvious, but he looks at Gerard. The two of them exit the building, Gerard fumbling with his keys to lock the doors behind him, and Frank eyes him, watches his perfect beauty in the perfect night. 

“Are you, like, good to go back to your dorm or do you need to come back to my place?” Gerard asks, and it breaks something. Frank’s smile fades rather quickly, an animation like quality about the way it disappears from his face. 

It’s like all of a sudden Frank realizes that he’s sad. He had been distracted by it. Gerard took that away from him, wholly, for a little while. He almost forgot. There’s a hollow pain in his gut, there probably always will be, but it hadn’t felt so heavy the past few hours. 

“Shit,” Gerard says, seeing the look that befalls Frank’s face. He doesn’t know exactly how but he knows that he caused that look, that dilapidated look of resignation. “I’m sorry, I-”

“You didn’t do anything.” Frank stops Gerard’s apology, not wanting to hear it when Gerard didn’t do anything wrong. “I just forgot what it was like being me for a little while, that’s all. You took my mind off of it.”

“God, this fucking sucks,” Gerard says. He starts walking out into the night air, everything around them so quiet already. The world is confused about what season it is. It’s not quite autumn, and it’s not quite winter, but it almost still feels like summer. There’s no telling signs of crickets, so it’s certainly not summer, but the air still feels humid, though that might be because winter is menacing itself over the world.

“Yeah,” Frank replies. He doesn’t answer Gerard’s question about where he intends to go. He walks with Gerard, the same destination in mind. 

“I wish I could tell you…” Gerard starts, but he drifts off.

“Tell me what?”

“I, well, I wish I could tell you that I can help you, that I know what to do to make things better, but I just, I don’t. I don’t have those answers. I want things to be better. I want that really bad.”

“I know you do,” Frank replies. “I want it too. But it’s fine if it takes a little while. As long as there’s like, there’s something after this. Whatever pain I have now, I genuinely believe things can be better. Eventually.”

“Can I at least, can I kick him off the team?” Gerard asks, not pretending he doesn’t know who did it. Frank must know that Gerard knows. It couldn’t have been clearer, there was only ever one person it could be.

“I just… he’s the best player on the team, Gerard. Apart from me, I guess, he’s the best we have.”

“So the team means more to you then… then to see him pay?”

“It’s not that, Frank shakes his head, “honestly. It’s just, if he goes, people are going to want to know why. If they want to know why, what do we say? And besides, you don’t have the authority to kick him off the team. Coach does. The school board does. If you were to try, what would you say? I know you’ve tried before, why would this time be any different?”

“I… I could tell them someone told me anonymously!” Gerard says, “you remember that article, I could use that to my advantage. I could tell them, and- and, he’d be kicked out of the school, or sent to prison, or just beaten to death by a lynch squad. Anything, Frank!”

“Gerard, I don’t… I don’t want that. I want things to go back to the way they were.”

“But if he’s still out there-”

“That’s my problem,” Frank replies. “it’s my problem. I don’t want you to go messing around with it.”

“I just care a lot about you,” Gerard’s words leave a silence in the night air. The two of them walk together, feeling like something’s missing. For Frank, it’s quite clear what’s missing, because it’s just about everything. Gerard doesn’t know why he feels as though there are pieces of him missing. He just knows that he’s sad, and that he’s miserable, and hurt, and it’s because he’s watching Frank go through this shit. 

The only sound around them is feet hitting cement. The tension fades away as they walk, some of it being released with every footfall. Frank looks around at the world around him. He looks at the sky, with stars that are bright and vivid, unlike the town where he grew up. Everything is calmer out here. This school is its own self-contained world. Everything outside of it seems not to exist. 

Gerard finds himself very confusingly pushed out of the way as Frank stomps hard on the ground beneath him. Gerard looks at him confusedly until he hears the telltale satisfying crunch of a leaf underneath Frank’s foot. Confusion turns into unparalleled, unfathomable love for this stupidly cute man.

“You’re so stupid,” Gerard says, laughing, the laugh seeming to come from somewhere internal and raw as Frank grins back at him, looking pleased with himself. 

Frank doesn’t say anything in response, as he’s watching the ground, looking for more crunchy leaves. 

Gerard spots one at the same time as Frank does and the two of them, unbeknownst to Frank, go for it at the same time. Gerard gets it first, and he had entirely forgotten just how amazing it feels to step on top of a crunchy leaf, but it’s an adrenaline rush akin to shooting up. 

“You fucking asshole!” Frank says, loudly, though he’s smiling and Gerard grins back at him, looking unconcerned with this aggressive tactic. “It’s on bitch.”

The two of them then have a competition to see who can get the crunchiest leaves, and who can get to them first. Gerard almost steps on Frank’s foot a couple of times, and Frank _does_ step on Gerard’s foot a couple of times. At least one of them is not an accident. 

Only a few steps away from Gerard’s building, they’ve almost entirely exhausted the last of the leaves, but there’s one very visible and distinctly crunchy looking leaf before them. In a slow motion, anime type scene, the two of them both make their way for it. Gerard is too slow, and Frank’s foot beats him to it, filling the air with quite possibly the single most satisfying crunch that the world has ever allowed. Gerard smiles at the look on Frank’s face. He might have let Frank beat him on that one, but he’s not going to tell Frank, given how unfathomably cute he looks.

“You won this time, Iero,” Gerard says, squinting his eyes at Frank, who looks happier than Gerard can ever remember seeing him. It’s dazzling to see him smile, you need sunglasses to look straight at it. 

Gerard wants to kiss him so bad. He wants to kiss Frank and wants Frank to kiss him back, and really that’s all he needs. He wants to kiss Frank. He wants to cuddle Frank. More than anything in the world he just wants that simplicity. He wants to be sweet and cute and romantic with Frank and to make Frank comfortable just by holding onto him. 

He can envision a life with Frank, and at this point, it’s all he can envision. He can see himself sitting next to Frank when he gets a call telling him he’s been drafted into the NHL. He can see himself cheering Frank on from the bleachers during Frank’s first game. He can see himself crying as Frank touches the Stanley Cup. He can see himself beside Frank for the rest of his life. 

Right now, Gerard holds the door open for Frank, letting him into the apartment building. It’s not everything he wants, but right now, it’s the best he can have. He wishes it were under different circumstances though. Even if they’re not together, he wishes Frank wasn’t here because of what happened to him. He wishes Frank were just here. Not because of anything. 

Give it time, he tells himself. Frank may never want him, but Gerard will be here in support of him no matter what. It’s not Frank’s fault that he doesn’t love Gerard back. It never was. It’s Gerard’s own fault for falling for him. Frank does need to take some amount of blame for being as perfect as he is, but that’s not something he can help. Gerard will be here for him. Forever. When Frank makes it into the NHL and leaves this tiny town behind him, when he forgets Gerard’s name and his number, Gerard will still be there for him. He’ll be his biggest fan. He always will be. For Frank, he’ll always be right here, right here cheering him on. Right now is when Frank needs him most. Right now is also when Gerard most needs Frank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a while, life has gotten in the way, but to all of you still reading, know that I appreciate you more than words.


	32. Survivors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Open wounds.

Frank is sitting in his bed, with his computer on his lap when Ray walks into the room. It’s the same position Frank has been in for most of the past week. But having his computer is new. He hasn’t had any interest in anything aside from staring at the wall for a while. Ray thinks that may be a sign that things are moving forward. 

Though it’s been an unsteady climb, Frank’s not doing as poorly as he was. He hasn’t given Ray any answers, and he poses more questions every single day. Frank didn’t come home the other night. It was on Friday, a little while after the game had ended and Ray had come back to their room, after a horrific loss that everyone had seen coming. Frank didn’t ask. He knew that the team lost by the look on Ray’s face. It was a little past eleven, and Frank put on a pair of sweats, then left without word. And he didn’t come back.

Ray’s mind is caught on Frank more than anything, but the team makes an occasional appearance in his brain. Ray’s life does revolve around hockey in a certain sense. Maybe they wouldn’t have lost so hard before Frank got there, but he’s become so integral to their team since his arrival that making up for the lack of him was impossible to achieve in one night. Maybe they have to get used to this. Maybe Frank is gone for good. Maybe it’s for the best. The team has never been a particularly good one, and he’s sure there are other teams in the same division with better players who deserve it more. Merely wanting a championship doesn’t mean you get one.

The team doesn’t even feel like the Green Knights anymore. For some reason, Pete doesn’t feel like the captain without Frank there. And Gerard doesn’t feel like a coach. The team is led by the ever-hopeful Coach, and Morgan of all people. Morgan’s been happy since Frank left the team. It’s clear there’s animosity there, but it’s unclear exactly why Morgan would want the team to be at stake for his hatred of anybody. Morgan cares about hockey just as much as Frank does, so why he’d want his team to fail is beyond Ray. 

Ray feels like a visitor in another person’s life without Frank beside him. Frank has become one of his closest friends, and their friend group is missing a key component without him there. At dinner, Ray sits next to Pete, Patrick, Travie, Mikey. Occasionally some of the other guys from the team. And they all like each other. But there’s something missing. Frank is a part of their group in a way that makes it hard to find things to talk about when he’s not there. Maybe if he were busy at a class, or studying in the library. But for all of them to know he’s in bed, mute and unresponsive, over something that is beyond words. 

Ray had stayed up late waiting for Frank Friday night. He texted but never got a response. When Frank did creep into their room it was tomorrow. It was ten in the morning, Saturday. It wasn’t just an outing. And he didn’t look tired. Frank had slept somewhere else. Ray was going to question him, but he didn’t know what to say. 

It was on that day that Frank actually started talking to Ray again. He didn’t bring up his whereabouts, but when Ray asked him if he wanted to come with him to dinner, he gave a verbal “no” rather than a gestural one. 

And on Sunday, when Ray woke up early in the morning and asked Frank if he wanted to go to church, Frank actually laughed. Ray hasn’t been to church since he was about seven years old. Frank actually interacted with Ray’s joke. There was color in his cheeks again. The old Frank wasn’t there. It was coming back into him slowly but it was coming back. 

Now it’s Monday, a week since Frank was Frank. Ray seeing Frank with a laptop on his legs is the closest he’s had to a good sign in what feels like millennia. 

“I went to class today,” Frank says, without any provocation from Ray. Ray almost jumps, surprised at hearing Frank’s voice. He’s excited, thrilled by the sound of it. He had forgotten a little what Frank sounded like. He knows Frank’s voice, of course he does, but the subtleties of it had gotten a little fuzzy. Frank’s voice is different from other peoples. It comes from a different spot than other people’s voices do. Like, it’s coming from his throat, but that’s not quite all there is to it. His voice sparks a little light in Ray, and he smiles up at Frank once he hears it.

Frank isn’t looking at him, he’s looking at his keyboard, with eyes all screwed up. He doesn’t even seem interested in Ray. He just said something in order to say it. Small talk. That’s something Frank’s never had much of. It’s not a bad sign. 

“Good,” is all Ray replies with. He goes over to his desk, shoving his backpack along beside him. He doesn’t expect Frank and him to have a conversation, he doesn’t expect that that’s going to happen for a little while. Frank is still recovering from what ever it is he’s recovering from. And Ray is insatiably curious, he can’t deny that. But Frank hasn’t brought it up with him. He hasn’t even come close to mentioning it. So Ray is going to leave it be until Frank decides to bring it up. Because Ray doesn’t really have any right to know anything. 

Ray pulls out his computer and prepares himself to do the Chemistry homework he’s been pretending isn’t due in three hours, when he thinks of the one question that he does really want to ask Frank. 

“Hey, Frank, I don’t need any details or anything, but are you, like, okay?”

Frank doesn’t respond. A few moments pass, and Ray assumes that’s it. Frank doesn’t want to say anything. It’s too much of a question for him to try replying to. So he just won’t. 

Ray has gotten his screen open and is beginning to unlock it when Frank’s voice finally responds with a, “no.”

Ray’s shoulders fall, and he hadn’t even known they were lifted. It feels very heavy to be told that his friend isn’t okay. Frank is very important to him, not just because he’s his teammates, but because being so close to him has made him somewhat of a brother. A lot of the guys feel like brothers to him, and Frank especially. 

“But I think things will get better. I am not fine. But I will be, eventually.”

Ray sighs a little bit. It’s not ideal. But it’s a whole lot better than what he had. Ray still doesn’t know what happened, and he doesn’t have a guess. Something traumatic. He doesn’t think it was a death, because he thinks Frank would have acted way differently if someone had died. But something big happened, and it hurt him in a different way than Ray can ever say he’s experienced before. 

Frank is not doing great, and pretending that it is would be meaningless. Class has been awful. Walking is hard. Daylight is weird. He couldn’t explain to any of his professors why he had been absent, so none of them have given him any breaks or leeway’s. He missed a few quizzes, in all of his classes. Tests, weekly assignments, and a lot of attendance points, none which he’s allowed to make up. Almost all of his grades have dropped by at least one letter. Things are going pretty terribly for him. 

But he’s alive.

And everything inside of him still hurts. It hurts just as much as it did the second after it happened, and sometimes, when he’s left alone with his thoughts, it hurts more than it did when it had happened. The pain is like it’s _happening_. But other times, it’s just a dull ache. And that dull ache is going to be with him for the rest of his existence, he knows. That’s not ideal, obviously. But he’d rather be aching than be dead.

Time heals all wounds.

Well, maybe not _heal_ exactly. Time certainly can make them less visceral. 

But one thing that he can’t allow is for the world to spin by without him in it. He hurts a lot. Everything is very hard for him. But he really is alive. His heart really is still pulsing. So he needs to stay in his own life for as long as he possibly can. 

Things always had to go back to normal. This is just the new normal.

Going to class is the first step. Frank busies himself with catching up on all the things he should’ve been doing last week. He’s a whole unit behind in German. A whole war went by in Western history. He’s never even seen one of the symbols he has to understand for Calculus. But he’s done this before, he can do it again. Frank would often get sick in his childhood. He always got caught back up. Now granted, he had maybe one homework assignment a night in elementary school, but he got things done. He may have more homework now, but he’s a whole lot smarter too. 

An hour or so later, Ray asks Frank if he wants to go grab lunch with him. Frank considers it. His stomach feels empty. He doesn’t want another bag of Fritos. He hasn’t had real food in over a week. He literally hasn’t had warm food at all in that time. 

He does want food. Frank nods a little noncommittally, and begins to crawl over towards the side of the bed. Ray is surprised, but he doesn’t allow himself to show it. If he makes a big deal out of Frank getting out of bed and going to lunch with him, it will do nothing but scare him off, which is the last thing that he wants to do right now. 

Frank looks shabby. Ray hadn’t known Frank was capable of growing facial hair, and it’s really not much, but he does have a little bit of stubble going on, because he clearly hasn’t been tending to himself that well the past week. Ray had been surprised when he saw Frank’s hair wet from a shower on Saturday night. Improvement is happening. Once he shaves, maybe Ray will be convinced of it. 

But Frank does follow Ray out their door. They don’t say anything on the walk to the dining hall, which is okay. The weather is in that middle ground between deciding whether it’s still fall or already winter. There’s some old snow on the ground which isn’t long for this world, and their feet get wet through their converse along the road. The wet ground doesn’t have a distinguishable source, but it’s very much there. The sky is white, but no snow falls. 

Frank has a vague but distinct memory of snow holding it’s ground when he was a kid. Once the first snow fell, it was there until April. Now, it’s like the snow doesn’t have the will anymore. It’s the global warming. You think it’s not affecting you because you get snow, but then you realize it is once the snow disappears a day or two later. 

Frank smiles a little despite it all, because it feels nice being outside with the sky so bright. He hasn’t seen the sun in a few days, and even now, when it’s hidden beyond a deep expanse of clouds, it’s still bright. The sun is still there somewhere, shining light on them, even if they’re not selfless enough to admit it. 

Frank wonders if it would rain or snow. The air seems pretty dry, so he doubts they can expect either, but if water did come, what form would it be in? It’s fairly cold, cold enough that you need at least a jacket, and it’s advisable to have on gloves. But is it cold enough for snow or ice?

There are leaves on the ground, which make Frank’s smile widen. He had definitely beaten Gerard. He found all of the crunchiest leaves. These leaves are all soaked through to the sidewalk, so there’s no point in hunting them down. But the memory makes Frank feel like a child. There’s nothing more innocent than playing with leaves. And there’s nothing that elates his inner child like the adrenaline he gets from being around Gerard. 

Frank almost steps in a puddle that’s taken residence in a pot hole in front of the dining hall. He sidesteps it just in time to only get a bit of his toe caught in it. The water doesn’t immediately soak through to his socks, but he’s sure it will, and then he’s going to have a soggy foot which will force him to go all the way back to the dorm to change his socks and shoes, which is tedious. But it’s a problem he’s more than happy to embrace. Somehow, little problems like wet feet make what happened to him a little less painful, and he can’t explain why. They still suck, but somehow, it’s nice knowing that smaller things can still suck too. Not as much, certainly not as much, but the world still has other things. 

And all those little things that suck are outmatched a billion to one by the things that don’t suck. There’s oxygen in the air, the sun is high, there are small squirrels about. People are laughing and smiling as they mill about around the sidewalks. There are cute little benches interspersed between well groomed plants which aren’t quite in their season but look healthy and alive nevertheless. Tree branches have a dusting of white snow that make all of them shimmer in the daylight. 

Sometimes daylight is enough to make things seem better. Everything is worse at night, even though it feels like you’re escaping from the horrors of the day. But really, daylight washes you out. The sun heals. 

The bricks of the dining hall are beautifully and delicately arranged to make the exterior a genuinely pretty sight. He’s never considered it beautiful before. The dining hall is boring, as are most of the buildings on this campus. It’s not an extraordinarily pretty school in architecture, but it does make up for that in nature. It’s a beautiful town, with beautiful views and agriculture. But today, the dining hall is beautiful. 

Ray opens the door for the both of them and Frank steps in. The smell immediately hits him, and it’s honestly not the best smell. Their food isn’t bad, but no one would ever claim it’s good. It’s a mile above the food you get at high school cafeterias, but it’s still pretty much cafeteria food even if they try to make it fancier by calling it a “dining hall.” But Frank loves his pasta bar, which is the source of most of his meals. He’s gained a lot of pasta weight, but he’s also shed most of his pasta weight because of the strenuous hockey practices he has. 

Frank is at ease here. The dining hall is the kind of place that makes him feel safe. It’s always got about fifty or so students in it, even when they’re not serving food. Frank will often take his textbook with him and study in the dining hall over his dinner for several hours. The ambiance of people talking is more calming to him than the library sometimes, because when he’s in the library, all sounds that happen are out of place and interrupt silence. In here, there’s always sound, so you can’t interrupt the constancy of it. 

Ray leads him over to a table where a familiar looking head is sitting, all alone, face buried in a textbook. Ray pulls out a chair across from him and Pete’s face looks up to greet his new company.

He blinks with confusion and surprise on his face when his eyes lay upon Frank. It feels like the first time seeing him. He visited Frank a couple of times while he was in bed, but Frank never actually looked at him, so he’s seen nothing more than Frank’s dark hair. Seeing his face again, it’s like seeing presents on Christmas morning. 

“Frank, oh my god,” Pete says, with startled eyes that make him look like an excited child at a birthday party. Ray makes a ‘cool it’ motion towards him in an effort to get Pete to chill out because Pete has an overwhelming personality which is a little much for some people, especially for a certain person who has been a hermit for the past week and hasn’t talked to anyone, or at least, no one to Ray’s knowledge. Except for maybe whoever’s place he slept on Friday night. 

“I’m so casually excited to see you?” Pete offers in a more toned-down way than his previous excitement. His face is hiding a smile but in the way that it’s impossible to hide a smile, so the edges of his mouth are upturned and shaking. If there’s anyone not used to looking serious, it’s Pete.

“Likewise?” Frank responds. Pete certainly notices almost immediately that there is something off about Frank. He has deep gauges under his eyes where his body is trying to convince him to sleep. His face also somehow seems to have a grey sheen to it. He looks tired, and old in his skin, but he doesn’t look any older per se. His face just ages his features to make him look altogether different, but somehow unchanged. 

It’s no surprise Pete hasn’t seen him at practice. You don’t look like this without a good reason. People who don’t know Frank would know something is off about him. He also holds himself a little differently than Pete has come to expect. Frank usually has his head held up very tall and high, to make up for what he lacks in height. Now, he is slumping, with relaxed shoulders that feel droopy. 

Pete looks at Frank, and Frank looks at Pete. Pete hasn’t changed. He’s the kind of guy who could change everything and remain exactly the same. Frank expects him to walk into the dining hall one day with pink hair and it’ll feel normal. Pete does have a way of radiating something like amusement. Frank isn’t quite happy or in a good mood, but he doesn’t feel like the world is shit and the only thing worthwhile is death when Pete is around. 

“Food,” Ray says, changing the subject when no other words are offered by either Pete or Frank. Food, they decide, is a good idea. 

Frank is used to eating a lot of food. When you exercise as much as a hockey player does by simply having practice, you’re forced to consume more than what other people would describe as a healthy portion. All sports players eat like vacuums, it’s a law of nature. Frank normally can eat a bowl of pasta, two pieces of garlic bread, a bowl or two of fruit or vegetables and maybe a cookie. And by the end of the day he’ll burn all those calories up and be hungrier than he was before. 

Now, Frank feels almost incapable of eating. He gets himself a bowl of pasta which looks like a tiny amount in comparison to what he usually eats. But it’s all he thinks he can manage, and it might even be too much. Frank makes his way back over to Pete’s table, and he sits in the seat directly across from him. Pete’s pushed his book aside, more concerned with Frank’s presence. Ray hasn’t returned from getting food yet, so it’s just the two of them. 

“So, how’s Patrick?” Frank asks, because it’s the only thing he can think of to say. Frank really misses seeing Patrick. Patrick has such a bright personality, such a sweet way of speaking. If Frank weren’t head over heels in love with Gerard and Pete weren’t head over heals in love with Patrick, Frank would probably like him. It would be a big change in scenery for Frank to be taller than someone he likes for once. But Patrick is Pete’s soulmate, and anyone could see that. And Gerard is Frank’s soulmate, but only Frank sees that. Gerard’s soulmate is probably some model or actress whose so pretty it hurts to look at her.

“Patrick is good. He’s not been very busy because of…” Pete starts, then stops, because he realizes that what he had wanted to say might sound pushy. Patrick hasn’t had much to write about with Frank not being on the team for the past week. There’s no excitement in the Green Knights, because they’re a shit team. With Frank, they’re a less shitty team. Frank is both the best player and the most interesting thing that’s happened to the team in years. 

“Well, anyway, Patrick’s great. I love him, and he’s perfect and amazing and the most talented person I’ve ever met and I want to have his future unborn adopted babies.”

Frank smiles and aches for a laugh to cross his lips but one doesn’t. Pete’s a walking joke, a parody of himself. And usually, talking to him is enough to make you roll your eyes into your brain and laugh all the way, but it doesn’t quite pierce Frank like it usually does. 

Ray returns to the table, sitting next to Frank, and then the conversation is lost, because Pete and Frank can’t talk about Pete’s relationship in front of him. 

Ray and Pete talk about classes. It’s boring conversation. Frank doesn’t care enough to participate. He’s waiting for something interesting to sprout up. He’s also dreading the question he feels is bound to be asked. Is he coming to practice tonight? How about practice tomorrow night? Or the next day. They practice six days a week. Frank hasn’t turned up to any of them, and he doesn’t know if he really intends to or not. He hasn’t made that decision. 

Frank drifts off a little. He thinks about Gerard. What would Gerard want or expect him to do? Frank woke up in Gerard’s bed on Saturday morning, Gerard having occupied the couch. They spoke a little about punk bands and concerts they wish they could go to. But they haven’t discussed hockey or anything since the practice they had on Friday night, or rather early Saturday morning.

Gerard doesn’t want to pressure him, and Frank appreciates that. But Frank does sort of want to go to practice. It’s just, he doesn’t want to see everyone else there. Because there’s someone on the team he’s not ready to face. 

Morgan is still there. And no matter how many days Frank takes off, he will still be there. If he returns tonight, Morgan will be there. Tomorrow, he’ll be there. Next week. It doesn’t matter. It’s practically Morgan’s team. And Frank is terrified of that. 

Frank can’t say that he’s ever feared anything as much as he fears Morgan. He used to be afraid of the goddamn monsters on Scooby Doo. He snuck downstairs at midnight to watch one of those horror movie marathons they play when everyone is asleep, and he was mortified for years before eventually falling in love with the movies that kept him awake at night. Frank’s terrified of spiders, and of dying, and of being forgotten, and of clowns. But fucking hell, he’d adopt fucking Shelob and Pennywise both if he never had to see Morgan again. 

“Frank?” Pete says his name, and it’s in a tone that makes Frank realize he’s repeated it a few times to get his attention. Frank looks up to see Pete staring back at him, and he’s concerned, because he thinks that the question he doesn’t want to hear is about to be heard. 

“I’m sorry?” Frank says.

“Were you interested?” 

“What?” Frank asks.

“The horror movie marathon at the ridgeway?” 

“Oh,” Frank says, realizing he hadn’t heard any of what Pete said. “Um, when is it?” 

“Saturday night,” Pete says. “It starts at midnight, they do it once a month, and Gerard mentioned you were big into horror movies.”

Frank tries to calculate. Today is Monday. In a way, it feels like a week ago. He lost an entire week to caving in on himself, and now he’s here again, a week later. Everything has remained the same. Classes proceeded, hockey has continued. The team played a game without him, which they lost. He’s missed an entire week wallowing away, and he knows everyone has seen that time pass without him, but he has felt like no time at all has passed. Because it’s Monday again. He’s just living his same old life. 

Everything has changed for him, but nothing has changed at all. 

“I… I don’t know,” Frank says. He doesn’t know. He likes horror movies. He loves them. They’re one of his greatest loves. Carrie is one of his favorite films ever made. He’d consider The Exorcist a cinematic masterpiece. He loves them. But he doesn’t know if he wants that right now. He doesn’t know if he wants anything right now. 

Frank’s got two specific goals. He wants to play hockey, and he wants to date Gerard. Everything else, even the stuff he enjoys, feels fake. It feels like plastic enjoyment. It’s not real. 

“I’ll get a whole group,” Pete says, “Patrick doesn’t want to come because he’s a fraidy-cat, but Ray’s in, Mikey and Gerard wanted to come, but Gerard said he’d only come if you did.” Pete’s about to say that Gerard’s been really worried about Frank, but he doesn’t want to push Frank in anyway, or remind him of the time he’s been gone. Pete doesn’t know Gerard’s the only person Frank’s actually seen or talked to in that time. 

Everyone knows Gerard cares more about Frank than he does about everyone else on the team besides Mikey. It’s not anything to be jealous over, because Gerard treats him just the same in practice, but it’s clear and definite. Frank is Gerard’s best friend. Gerard is also Frank’s best friend. 

“I might go,” Frank says, but he doesn’t offer anything more. He doesn’t have an answer as to whether he intends to come or not. He knows he needs to get back to living, to have some enjoyment in his life, but he doesn’t know how to ease back into that. How do you pretend like you’re fine after everything goes all wrong? It’s very hard to pretend you’re all put together when in fact you’ve lost all your pieces. 

“A maybe is better than a no,” Pete shrugs. That’s Pete’s personality. Pete is the optimist at the end of all tunnels. 

Frank dwells on his food again. He stirs away at his pasta, not feeling hungry enough for it. It’s the first real meal he’s had in days. He feels too full, and still starving. He knows he needs to eat, that his body is aching for it, but his mind just doesn’t agree. He’s a whole soup of confliction.

Frank’s eyes wander around the room, trying to distract him from his food. He sees faces he kind of recognizes. A guy who’s in his rhetoric class, a girl with bright pink hair that you can’t help but to recognize after you’ve seen her once. Then he sees Brendon sitting alone with his ear buds in. There’s a specific set of tables made for the antisocial people and loners, which are high topped tables shoved against the wall. Brendon is at one of these. 

Frank looks at Ray and Pete who are talking about cartoons of all topics. Frank doesn’t care. He takes his bowl of pasta, which appears almost untouched, and he walks it over to the dish return. He doesn’t think too much about it before he then walks over to Brendon. He wants to be near him. If only just to sit adjacent to him for a moment. Frank has a connection with Brendon that no one wants to have with anyone, but he has it anyway. 

Frank takes the seat next to Brendon, struggling a little bit, because it’s a high stool and Frank has quite short legs. It’s an adventure to get into the seat. But he makes it, and Brendon barely even turns his head to look at his new company. “You’re on your feet again,” Brendon says. It’s a statement that doesn’t seem to require any real response. 

“I’m in a lot of pain.”

“I know,” Brendon says, taking a bite of his food. “I am too.”

“Is this just who we are now?” Frank doesn’t think either of them have the room for casualties. Frank’s never been much of a small talk guy. He’s less of one now. 

“Probably,” Brendon says. “But life goes on.”

“I don’t know how. I don’t know why. Shouldn’t the world just stop?” 

“You would think,” Brendon says, “but the rest of the world doesn’t care if your hurt. We’re bound to keep on going.”

Frank dwells on a question he wants to ask, and knows he should, but he doesn’t know how to ease into it. There isn’t a way. So he just blurts it out. “How did you go back? How did you just go back to the team and look him in the eye after what he did?”

“I just… did. I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t… I couldn’t tell anyone. You know, you’ve been playing the game as long as I have. Hockey players are- we’re straight. We’re big, burly, heterosexual masses with no, like emotions. We don’t- we’re not hurt by anything. So I couldn’t tell anyone. I just had to, like, grin and bear it. And I can’t quit the team, I can’t afford college. I have a lot of siblings, we ran out of college money a long time ago. Either I play hockey or I have a future living in a cardboard box, and I can’t do that. As awful as it is, I know that hockey is the only thing I have which will shape my future.”

“But how are you still able to play. I saw you, after it happened. I never even would have guessed. You played the same.”

“The game hasn’t changed, and neither have my skills for it. I’m not the greatest player on the team, you and I both know that, but I am still a cog in the machine, and that system hasn’t changed for me. He’s on the team, and I know that, but he hasn’t changed how I play. It’s hard being aware of him there. But I do it anyway.”

“Are you afraid he’ll…” Frank doesn’t need to finish the sentence. 

“I don’t know. I never let myself be alone with him. I get out of there as fast as I can, only walk places where other people can see. I’ve had to skip meals because I couldn’t walk to the dining hall alone. I’m dead afraid of him. I’m terrified. But as afraid of him as I am, I know I’m stronger than he is.”

“It’s hard to just keep going, isn’t it? To pretend like nothing happened.”

“What choice do we have?”

Frank hesitates. “I… I got a rape kit done.” He’s not sure this is the time to say it but he doesn’t know if there’s ever a time to. He hasn’t even told Gerard. Gerard would probably press into him to take legal action and Frank knows he should but he just can’t. Frank has every intention of going to the NHL once he’s out of this school. If he has a scandal like this following him around, which it most definitely will, he’ll be the hockey player who was raped rather than the hockey player who’s damn good at hockey. 

“Oh,” Brendon says, and he actually seems surprised at the words. “I didn’t go to the hospital after.” 

“You didn’t?” Frank asks, surprised.

“Couldn’t bring myself to,” Brendon says. “I never wanted anyone to know, not even a doctor. Until it happened to you and I knew I had to tell you.”

“I’m clean. Like, I didn’t get anything from him. So you should be good to.”

“That’s good,” Brendon says, nodding. There’s quiet for a time. Neither of them are particularly quick friends. Frank doesn’t really have that trait. He has learned he’s capable of making friends only recently, but he certainly wouldn’t say that those bonds are quick to form. Brendon is the same. They’re both rather choppy and blunt, a hard characteristic to bond over. It doesn’t seem to be a bad thing to have silence though. There’s nothing wrong in it. Sometimes there isn’t anything to say. 

“Are you going to tell the cops?” Brendon asks eventually, though it’s a question that is burning a hole through him to restrain.

“No,” Frank shakes his head. “No, I don’t think I am. I’m not ready to be that guy right now. Maybe someday, I don’t know, probably never, but if I ever feel like I have the backbone for it.”

“Mor-” Brendon starts and stops himself. The name is like Voldemort. It can’t be said. “He’s got a rich daddy. Owns a pharmaceutical company or something.” They both pretend Brendon hadn’t flinched. Neither of them can say Morgan’s name, so what does it matter?

“Of course he does. It’s always the rich guys who walk around doing anything they want.”

“Even if we did tell, I don’t think… I don’t know that anyone would even hear us.”

Frank doesn’t know if he agrees with that. Yes, Morgan may be able to buy his way out of anything, but Frank does have the power to absolutely ruin him. As already evidenced by Patrick’s article, word can spread really fast about a scandal in a Division I school. Even if it’s a shitty team, which the Green Knights are, a gay hockey player is big news. A gay hockey player just isn’t done. It’s not a thing. So what would a story like this do? The whole world would probably blow up. Frank could make more than just waves.

The problem is that he doesn’t want to.

“I’m not going to tell. But if I did, I wouldn’t drag you into it.” Brendon makes a soft sound of thanks. He believes Frank. Frank trusts Brendon, and Brendon trusts Frank, it’s a mutual respect that it’s hard not to have for someone who you know something that cuts this deep about. 

“Can I ask you what you’re planning on doing next?” Brendon asks finally, with a tone of voice that suggests he’s been holding off from asking it. “So we don’t say what happened. Fine, whatever. But like, you’re finally on your feet, and I’m glad to see it. But what’s your next move?”

“I just… I just have to go back to living, I guess. I think… I think I’m coming back to practice. Not tonight, I have a lot of homework I need to catch up on. But soon. I need to, for my own health. I thought I couldn’t play anymore, but then I went without it and realized I’m an addict. It runs through me like the high from a drug. Took me a little while to get back into the rhythm of it, but hockey is mine. It belongs to me. And as much as I hate the fact that I’ll see him, I know that he doesn’t expect to see me back. He doesn’t think I’m coming back. And if I do show up, I’ll have beaten him in a way. I’ll have beaten him. Like you did.”

“I haven’t beaten anything. I’m just barely getting by.”

“Barely getting by is, well, it’s still getting by.” Frank says. “Do you feel like… I don’t know. Do you feel like a survivor or do you just feel like a victim?”

“I don’t know what I am anymore,” Brendon says. Frank doesn’t know that there’s any more to say on the subject than just that. And they both know it. Silence drifts through, and settles into them both. 

Brendon checks his watch, and Frank can see that he must have class, because he starts to put away his things. Before Brendon gets up to leave, he turns to Frank and says, “we’re a team, you and I, Frank. Not just teammates.”

“We are,” Frank says. It’s sentimental. He doesn’t know that it could be anything else. They share something no two should ever share with each other. But they do, and in a way, it is nice for Frank to know that someone else knows exactly how he does. That he has someone else who is going through it. As awful as it is, it’s nice to know that they do have each other. If they have to go through it, it’s nice they don’t have to do it alone. 

Frank thinks Brendon is so strong. He went back to the team the day after he was hurt. He faced the man who hurt him and no one ever even knew. Frank never suspected a thing, and the fact that he is able to do that, is still on the team, is still playing to the best of his ability, it shows Frank strength that he doesn’t know if he has. It shows him something unbelievable. A person can go through hell and get back up. Brendon is living proof of it. And to look him in the eye. To play adjacent to the guy who hurt him, it’s beyond strength. It’s something spoken of in myth and in legend. 

And Frank loves hockey, with all of his heart he loves hockey. If Brendon can do it, Frank knows he can to. Because hockey means more to him than it could ever possibly mean to Brendon, he knows that. Hockey is Frank’s one true love, the love that he knows will never desert him.

“I’ll see you at practice?” Brendon offers.

“Yeah,” Frank says. He’s not sure when, but he will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment? Please?


	33. These Times Are Changing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good enough for Frank.

Life can be very hard sometimes. No one would find this to be news. It can kill you, rip out your insides, stomp on them, and then shove them back inside of you so that you have to continue to suffer through the torment of existence. But like, as half of what you were. And no one can see what you’ve been through except yourself. 

And that’s just the nature of things sometimes. Most of the time. Life is messy. It’s hard, and painful, and the fact that people put themselves through it all the time seems tedious and idiotic. There are moments in between however, that make everything worth living. 

For Frank to say he’s not miserable would be a lie, because he is. But misery does imply one thing for absolute certain. Misery implies perseverance. If you are miserable, you’re still alive. And Frank is still breathing. He’s pushing through it; however difficult it may be.

Between piles of homework which have made him miserable and with the threat of quizzes, tests and his future looming over him, it’s a wonder he’s able to keep going. It’s not too bad though. It’s a distraction. Why do Germans assign genders to every fucking inanimate object? He doesn’t know, but he’s memorizing all of them. Why is their actual fucking Greek in his Calculus class? He’s still not sure but he’s working through it. What white person killed another white person sometime in the late 1300s over something Frank could probably thumb wrestle over? Probably money, history is always the same. These are things Frank finds tedious but everything that distracts him is what he needs. 

He also needs a distraction from his own distractions sometimes. And the best distraction in the world is Gerard. Life is at its peak when he’s watching black and white murder mysteries and eating pizza. But only when it’s with Gerard. 

“You know, I’ve said it before,” Gerard says between bites of pizza, “Agatha Christie is the true monarch of crime fiction. Conan Doyle is all well and good but fucking hell, Sherlock Holmes is annoying as shit. Sometimes it’s not about being clever, sometimes it’s just about a good fucking murder.”

Frank doesn’t particularly care for murder mysteries, and he knows he’s a minority, but he doesn’t care. He just likes how much Gerard does. Gerard has many traits which make Frank’s stomach flutter. One of the best examples of this is simply watching movies or TV with him. Frank’s not so much watching the movie as he is watching Gerard. 

“God, I love a good murder,” Gerard says, and Frank laughs. “Not like real murder. Real murder is bad. I like fake murder because it’s all the joys of murder but without nearly as much death. Fuck, I mean, like it’s fictional death so it’s not real death, so I don’t feel to guilty about enjoying it like I would if it were real death which is bad. I’m not a sociopath.”

“You’re such a fucking nerd,” Frank says, laughing at him. 

“It’s fun sometimes! Murder is interesting. I like not knowing things. Us humans, we always have to fucking know everything. Nothing’s ever exciting anymore. Sometimes murder can be refreshing.”

“Gerard, why are you like this?” Frank asks, hitting him in the side of the arm. 

Gerard blushes. Frank has a spell over him that he can’t seem to break. He looks over at Frank and it gives him that same electric current he always gets. He wants so badly to kiss him right here and now, to hold the sides of his face and never let go. To have him, and protect him. 

He just makes sense so much. He is an ocean. He’s the moon and the stars. 

“You can’t say your any different. You love horror movies. All you really watch are horror movies. So you like murder too!”

“Not like you. I like adrenaline, that, like, that feeling you get in your chest when you’re scared shitless and it feels like you could punch the sun,” Frank corrects him. “And gore. God, I love gore. Nothing better than blood fucking everywhere. Gallons of it. That’s the life.”

“I just kind of like everything,” Gerard shrugs, because there’s not much in a movie he doesn’t like. He supposes he’s not fond of the forced heterosexual relationships that are pushed into movies for no cause. Really, Gerard’s perfect movie wouldn’t have any of that. Lots of people would be murdered, there would be a lot of blood everywhere, someone at some point gets chopped in half brutally, and it ends with the satisfaction of knowing who did it. Maybe a romantic gay subplot if you have to add a cheesy romance. 

In his head, Frank’s mind reverberates the words “I just like you” back and forth, with the hunger to say the words out loud, but he doesn’t. At least not in words anyway. His eyes tell a different story. 

Everyone looks stunning with the lights off and only the colors of a TV reflecting on their face. It’s a fact of life. It’s impossible not to look like a model. Gerard is no different. With the lights off, and the screen casting white light on him, he’s beautiful. Black and white movies are especially good for this effect, so Frank looks at him, and he’s brilliant. It’s a perfect shot. 

When Frank smiles, it always starts with the left side of his mouth. It always starts there and melts across his face. Gerard doesn’t know why he picked up on it. Gerard doesn’t know why he’s picked up on anything with Frank. Frank always smells very much like himself. Playing any kind of sport means that you tend to be smelly, and usually that’s a bad thing, but Gerard doesn’t mind the way Frank smells. It’s not even that bad. He recalls someone telling him that liking the way someone naturally smells means that you’d make a great baby with them. He’s sure he would make a great baby with Frank. It would be adorable. What that really means is that you’re just more compatible with them biologically speaking, but their lovechild would be the most adorable thing. That baby would be weird as shit but it would run the fucking world. 

Gerard has started planning his own future with Frank which is stupid because he doesn’t have one, but he’s thought about it anyway. They’d have three kids, maybe four. Gerard would love to have twins. They’d have one of those cookie cutter suburban houses in Jersey so that their kids can have the same experiences Gerard did, which were weird and grimy but worth it. It’s also imperative that their kids grow up supporting the Devils even if they are a shitty team, because Gerard could never raise a Blackhawk fan.

Frank will be an NHL player, of course, and Gerard would be a comic book artist, or a coach for the NHL and they’ll have at least one dog and one cat but realistically two of each. Gerard will read the kids The Hobbit as a bedtime story, and he’ll have to explain to Frank why it’s inappropriate to read your children Goosebumps before bed. He’ll eventually settle and let Frank read them Coraline when they’re a little older. 

They’d have a good life. A really good life. Frank and Gerard would be the best goddamn parents and the best fucking couple. Gerard can see all of it when he looks at Frank. Sees all of it like a Taylor Swift music video. 

Looking out the window is a distraction, but it’s not much of one. The sky outside is dark, and the day is almost coming to a close, becoming tomorrow. It’s a Thursday night so Frank should really be in bed right now. The team has a game tomorrow so Gerard should also probably be in bed. 

Hockey doesn’t seem terribly important to Gerard right now. It’s still a lingering feeling deep inside of him, but the need for winning isn’t in him the way it used to be. In a way, Frank has given him reason to see beyond just hockey. Even though hockey is everything to Frank, it’s also quite stunning to see who he is without it.

Frank, these last few days, is not his former self, and no one would claim that he is. But he’s definitely trying, and that’s something everyone would be able to attest to. He’s putting a lot of effort into existing, which isn’t really how existing is supposed to work, but for Frank, it’s a lot of work to do just about everything. And he’s miserable, by god is he miserable, but it’s not so bad. 

Hockey is still deeply important to him, and Gerard can see that, but Frank is still himself even without it. No, he’s not his former self, but that person is gone, and Gerard has learned to be okay with that. Frank is changed and will remain changed and he doesn’t know if it’s for the better, but it’s a certainty all the same. 

Seeing Frank makes him wonder what else he might be doing. Where would he be right now if he didn’t have this job? Would he be a coffee shleper for some big cartoon agency? Would he be living in his mom’s basements drawing comics and working at a Dairy Queen? What does he have to fall back on? 

Art is always going to be his answer. And the more he knows Frank the more it feels like it’s calling him. It’s not calling him away from hockey, but there’s a need inside him to be _more_. Because he’s not as good as Frank is at hockey, nor is he even a good enough coach for someone like Frank. The only thing he’s got that he’s good at, unparalleled, is art. 

Gerard’s taken to noticing the way Frank’s face looks. Not just in a hormonal way, but the way it _looks_. The angles, and dips, and edges, and curves. It’s a perfect model for creativity, in all honesty. Gerard’s mind keeps painting pictures of him, and in his free time, they’ll occasionally become sketches that he hides in his paper strewn desk at the rink. Frank has an amazing face. It’s just amazing. Anyone would want to sketch it. It just so happens that Gerard happens to be in love with him, so he sketches it more than he probably should.

Gerard’s getting lost in him again. He’s always getting lost. 

There comes a certain point in falling in love with someone where the slow decline becomes a sheer drop. You’re on a steady trek downhill and then it’s like a rope being pulled taut. Gerard’s falling faster than he can keep himself ahead of. 

Frank’s not too far behind. He’s never been in a relationship in his entire life. He’s barely ever even had friends. So, Gerard is more than uncharted territory. But things are turning in a way. Something is changing between the two of them. He can feel it. There is a closeness forming that is not typical. But he’s hesitant to think too much on that because he’s sure he’ll let himself down.

Frank misses the end of the movie. Gerard forgets they’re even watching the movie. Both of their eyes are fixed on the screen. They’re definitely looking at it. Some part of their brains even hears the words being spoken. But none of it is reaching them. Gerard’s seen this movie two or three times, so he knows how it ends. But when the credits come onto the screen, he doesn’t remember any of it. 

“Good movie,” Frank says. It’s the same kind of small talk that a cashier has with a customer. It’s not real or in the right reality. 

“Yeah,” Gerard nods.

There’s an uncomfortable silence but neither of them is sure if the other one knows it’s an uncomfortable silence, because it might just be a silence, the nature of it being uncomfortable is entirely in their own minds. But it’s an uncomfortable silence nonetheless. 

“I should head back to my dorm,” Frank says, standing up. “Ray will get worried. He’s been like my second mom lately.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Gerard says, standing up. He wishes Frank would stay, but it’s not in his power to make that happen. Frank slept over about a week ago, and it wasn’t under pleasant circumstances. Frank should go, but watching him leave is hard. 

Frank grabs the coat that he threw on Gerard’s kitchen counter which he uses as a coat rack, because, in Gerard’s own words “if it takes more than five minutes and a handful of pasta to create, then I won’t cook it.” Gerard’s whole apartment kind of looks like that. He’s not necessarily a slob, but he’s not very tidy. It’s not disgusting or anything, but a tornado might make it tidier. He’s still got a tower of pizza boxes on the counter, and a few pans hanging above the stove which are honestly spotless so Frank doubts they’ve ever been used. But it could be no one’s apartment but Gerard’s and that’s what matters. 

Honestly, Frank loves Gerard’s apartment. He likes that it’s old, and poorly decorated and messy. He likes that it feels like walking into Gerard’s brain by stepping foot into it. 

He could see himself in this apartment. Not as his own, or anything, but he could see them both in it. He’d probably clean it up some. Frank’s not a particularly messy person, but it doesn’t bother him too much. He’d at least like a more coherent path on the ground. But everything else, he’d keep basically the same. He’d add a few posters to the parts of the wall that need them, framed of course, because Gerard is an adult who has framed posters rather than sticking them on the wall with blue tac. The tower of pizza boxes would probably go, and they’d put a welcome mat in front of the door so that Gerard doesn’t have a big trail of sand and mud in that corner of the apartment. But other than that, it’d be just about the same. He can only imagine living with Gerard and all of his comic books. Probably being given a new one daily to read. And he _would_ read it.

Frank begins pulling his coat on and walking to the door when he sees Gerard grabbing his own coat, and then stuffing his foot into a pair of shoes that have seen better days. 

“Wait, where are you going?” Frank asks, when Gerard not only holds the door for him but then pulls it shut behind the both of them. His keys tinkle as he searches for the right one to lock the door behind him.

“Walking you home,” Gerard says, as if it’s obvious.

“You don’t need to do that,” Frank replies, and he’s glad the lighting is dim so that Gerard can’t see him blushing. 

“Maybe not,” Gerard shrugs, “but I’m going to anyway.”

“It’s like a twenty-minute walk,” Frank says. 

“But you’ll be safer,” Gerard says, and those words seem to mark the end of any discussion. Frank can’t argue with him.

Come to think of it, he’s extremely thankful. Frank hasn’t been out alone at night since that day he came running to Gerard’s apartment in hysterics. He was honestly too depressed to have considered it then, but now it seems like a very real fear. Frank shouldn’t have stayed with Gerard this long, but he also doesn’t regret it. A few hours more with Gerard are a few hours more with him feeling a little less empty. 

Being outside at night is scary, especially on a college campus. Frank never would have seen it that way before, but now it’s apparent. He’s not a girl, but he knows they should be scared alone. Now he knows to fear it. Because there are bad people about. There’s a very bad person somewhere in this town and he haunts Frank’s every waking moment. Being alone is terrifying because of him. 

“That’s really sweet of you,” Frank says. He questions whether ‘sweet’ is the word he wants to use. Would a straight guy call another straight guy sweet? Probably not. Shit.

But Gerard doesn’t notice it. He’s blind to all the signals Frank gives him. It’s kind of obvious if you know what to look for. Mikey is the only person in the world who knows that both of them like each other, but his ‘knowledge’ of Frank liking Gerard is only suspicion and not enough to give Gerard any certainties. But he’s been feeding Gerard that intuition lately, and Gerard just doesn’t see it. 

The two of them walk down the stairs together slowly. Gerard’s building isn’t the Ritz by any means, but it’s got heating and heating is one of mankind’s most useful inventions. It’s certainly welcome the minute the both of them step foot outside. 

It seems like the weather has finally made up it’s mind about what season it is. It is mid-November after all, so the snow should have been coming down weeks ago, but it’s starting to drift its way down to the ground. It’s not the feathery snow that they’ve had a few times, but the thicker stuff, that’s more likely to stick to the ground, and when packed tightly, would make one hell of a snowball. 

“I don’t know about you,” Gerard says, “but I prefer snow. To most things. Snow is elegant, and it makes everything prettier.” Frank’s dark hair catches some of the snow which clings to him, giving his hair contrast and glamor. Yes, snow definitely makes things prettier. 

“I do too,” Frank replies. “I think my favorite thing is when the sun is up and it makes the snow too bright to look at.”

The snow does have its disadvantages though. They pass a few leaves, but they’re all either covered in snow or too damp to be worth their while. Every season has its flaws. 

Everything outside seems very quiet. It’s rare that you’re outdoors and hear absolutely nothing. This isn’t quite a busy street, but it’s a street, so it’s odd that there aren’t any cars passing by. It’s too late in the day to hear the sound of birds. There doesn’t even seem to be wind. There’s just snow falling around them, and it feels like a movie scene. It feels like something pivotal and emotional. But it’s just simple. Sometimes simplicity is elegance. 

“You know that horror movie thing Pete wants to go to?” Frank asks. 

“Yeah, I told him I probably wasn’t going,” Gerard says. 

“I was thinking that I actually would go.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. What better to do on a Saturday night then watch people get brutally murdered and shit. I miss normal things like that. First I thought I didn’t really care anymore, but then I realized there was no point pulling myself away from the things I like. I’m working on that, but it’s a work in progress. But in any case, I know I’ll regret not going.”

“Good,” Gerard nods. “I’m happy. I wanted to say I’m proud of you but that sounds condescending, but like, I am, I guess.”

“Are you coming too? Pete said you weren’t sure if you wanted to go, but I was hoping you would. You got me that big stack of horror movies for my birthday and I promised you a marathon, and what better way to do that than on a theater screen? Might not be the same movies, but there will be equal amounts of blood. And blood is really all that matters isn’t it?”

“Uh, yeah,” Gerard says nodding, because if Frank wants him to go he will go. If Frank tells him to jump he will ask how high. Frank has got a hold on him. 

Frank smiles. He wouldn’t want to go with anyone else. Frank loves a jump scare, the adrenaline it gives him is a high he craves like drugs which he’s not allowed to use since he’s on the hockey team. He’s not necessarily scared by jump scares so much as surprised. But fuck if he wouldn’t hide in Gerard’s arms when the movie gets particularly scary. 

Thinking about that is a mistake. Gerard would be so warm. And he’d smell so damn good. And he’d hold Frank close to him, maybe too tightly, and they’d breathe together. He’d be able to hear Gerard’s fast beating heart, trying to pretend he’s not scared because if you’re holding someone in your arms you’ve got to be the strong one, but he’d probably jump even higher. 

“We also need to marathon The Flash. And Supergirl. Possibly Batman the Animated Series.” Gerard loves any TV show based on comics. It’s just the kind of person he is. Even the shitty ones. He loves superheroes. There is something deeply nostalgic about someone in a mask saving the day. It makes Gerard feel warm and fuzzy inside. 

“I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time to do that,” Frank jokes.

“Not if you go back to Boston next year,” Gerard says, and he hadn’t even really known he was still bothered by that. He should’ve moved on to bigger things considering a lot of bigger things have happened, but he can’t stop himself from thinking about that. Frank might leave him. And he probably should. He should probably get as far away from the memories of this place as he can. Morgan will be graduating after this semester, but even if he’s gone those ghosts will still be here forever. 

“Yeah,” Frank shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m not sure what I’m doing next year yet. I’m not sure if I’m staying here, or going somewhere else or what. I’ll be honest, I’m not sure what I’m doing tomorrow let alone next year.”

“I know it’ll sound selfish but I hope you stay here. Not necessarily because of the team, but because I’ll miss you. As mushy as it sounds.”

Frank blushes, because who wouldn’t at a sentence like that? Gerard wants him to stay here. Obviously, Frank’s going to consider what he wants first, but Gerard wants him here. That means a lot to him, because he feels like he means nothing to Gerard even though Gerard means everything to him. It’s hard to know what he means to Gerard.

“I really don’t know.”

“I mean, I want you to do whatever you need to do, but like, I’ll still want you here no matter what you do. But your decision is what matters. I just hope you know that you’re deeply wanted here.”

“I appreciate that. I do really love the people I’ve met here. Ray, Pete, Patrick, even Mikey.”

“Ugh, Mikey,” Gerard says, making a face, and Frank just rolls his eyes because he may say otherwise but they both know that Gerard would step in front of a bullet for Mikey. 

“You know, I’ve never had friends like you guys. I’ve never really had friends at all before this place,” Frank says, and it’s startling for him to realize that he’s never really told anyone that before. He’s never really had friends, and it’s been okay, but it is a whole lot of fun to know people and to be excited just to see someone. He didn’t really know how much he was missing out on before coming here. 

In elementary school he had kids who he’d play with, but he wasn’t like best friends with anyone at all. He played a lot of kickball and four square during recess. He was only ever invited to birthday parties back when you invited everyone in your class. He ate the middle pieces of a lot of birthday cakes at Chuck E Cheese. But no one who he’d go over to their place and watch TV shows or just talk with. 

Everyone here makes Frank feel wanted. Pete is always excited to see him, and he’s excited to see most people, but that doesn’t devalue him in anyway. Pete just genuinely loves to hang out with people. And Ray is the best roommate a guy can ask for, he’s funny, kind, understanding, and caring. Patrick is the sweetest dude on the face of the planet, and damn talented too. Mikey is Mikey, but he’s refreshing. Travie is inspirational and almost otherworldly. Even Brendon makes Frank feel at least comforted. 

“I find that hard to believe,” Gerard says. “You’re like, the nicest dude ever. Like not in the bland way that the word ‘nice’ connotates, you’re just like, you’re just really kind and fun to be around.” Frank wonders if that’s something a straight guy would say, but he rushes that thought from his head because he knows it leads nowhere he wants it to go. 

“You’re a nerd,” Frank replies, and Gerard punches him in the shoulder. Frank’s laughter fills the quiet around them.

Frank used to like being outside at this hour even if he shouldn’t; when light is created by only lamppost and moon. Everything is quiet, the world is resting. Things are simple. Life isn’t simple anymore, and the nighttime doesn’t make it so. And right now, it’s not doing much. Frank still feels pain and hurt. He longs more for the day when the sun drowns out panic. 

“Whatever you do, Frank, just make sure it’s what you want to do,” Gerard says, finally. “Whether you stay here, go back to Boston, or just go somewhere else entirely, make sure you’re doing what you know is right. Hell, even if you’re not playing hockey. Maybe you can figure skate. I don’t know a lot about it, but I know you could kick ass.”

“I’m actually not very good,” Frank says, “I know the basics, but I’ve never had a coach or anything. You just think I’m good because you’ve never watched figure skating before. But it’s damn hard. I’d say it’s a mountain harder than hockey.” Frank is not a professional by any means. He’s a beginner even if he’s been doing it for most of his life. Without a coach, it is just a hobby. It’s a skill, but it’s not a career. Besides, he’s getting old as far as a figure skating shelf life is concerned. He should’ve been out there competing years ago if he ever wanted to do it professionally. 

“I don’t know a lot, but that doesn’t mean you’re not good,” Gerard says. “You should show me some time. Maybe you can change my mind even more.”

“I think watching anyone figure skate would change your mind. If you knew what we were doing out there, there’s no way you’d call it easy.”

“Then show me, yeah?” Gerard asks. “If you want, I mean. But like, there’s no one I’d rather have introduce me to figure skating than you.” Frank can’t help but to ask himself if that sounds like flirting. It doesn’t sound straight to him, but Frank is _looking_ for Gerard to be gay. He might just be seeing it because he wants it to be there. 

“Maybe,” Frank shrugs. “But only if you’ll show me some of your art sometime. All I really know about your interests is hockey and comics. But I’ve never gotten to see your art, which is weird for a guy who majored in it.”

“It’s a deal,” Gerard nods. He doesn’t know if he really cares that much for figure skating, but he think he might if Frank showed him how. Gerard is of the opinion that Frank is the best in the world because no matter how good a figure skater you are, it’s hard to be as beautiful as Frank is when doing it. Not just graceful, but fucking magnetic. That’s what Frank is. Magnetic.

Gerard will have to hide the drawings he’s done of Frank if he shows him his art. There aren’t _that_ many, but there are quite a few. He’s a little nervous that he’s not talented enough, and that he’ll embarrass himself by showing Frank. But he reminds himself that he did make it through art school. So if he’s good enough for that, he must be good enough for Frank. 

_Good enough for Frank_. Like there’s such a thing. 

Gerard sees Lancaster Hall, and he hates to see it because that means Frank will be gone soon. Gerard is sick of wishing he could spend every moment with him, but that’s how he feels. He wishes he were waking up beside him. He wishes that Frank’s closeness belonged only to him. 

He hates how hard it is to have that. Even if Frank never loves him back, Gerard has so few people to pick from and there’s no reason for why any of them should ever want him. Frank wouldn’t even want him if he were into guys. Because Gerard’s not good enough for him and he knows that. Gerard’s not talented enough, not attractive enough. He’s a whole different class. And Frank will always be too good for him. Too good for everybody.

Frank turns to him when they stop in front of the main doors. Frank is unsure of what to say. Gerard’s making him tongue tied. He looks so pretty in the moonlight, not like he doesn’t always look pretty but there’s a different contrast. His features are darker, and his hair looks softer. His hair looks obscenely black and his skin too white. He’s so pretty. He’s the kind of guy who you could see on posters hanging on people’s walls, and he might be someday.

“I’ll see you at the horror movie thing on Saturday?” Gerard offers.

“Yeah,” Frank nods. “Maybe tomorrow too. We’ll see.” 

Gerard doesn’t want to get his hopes up about tomorrow. Their game is tomorrow, but Gerard doubts Frank wil be playing, and Coach might not let him play anyway. She’ll let Frank back on the ice for practice, but not until he attends practice again. Gerard hopes that Frank will be back to playing by their next hockey game, which is at a school a few hours away next Saturday. They really need him. Things are looking bleak for the Green Knights.

It’s not just the team that needs Frank. He thinks Frank might also need the team. Frank is truly happy when he plays hockey. It’s obvious. It might be hard to get back out there, but Gerard truly believes that playing hockey will help him. It helped him the other day when the two of them went to the rink together. Ball is life, as they say.

At the very least, Gerard hopes Frank might come to watch their game. Frank should see how bad they are without him, they’re an entirely different team. Without Frank there to finish the line, one of their flexible players, Trystan, has been forced to pick up the slack, and he’s not bad, but he’s not Frank. No one is Frank. Frank is unbeatable. He must know that the team is poor without him, but if he actually saw just how _much_ it’d surprise him.

“I hope so,” Gerard says. Frank scans himself into the building as Gerard says it, and Gerard steps forward a little bit, not prepared to see him go. This is where he’d give Frank a good night kiss if he could.

“See you, Gerard,” Frank says, smiling. Gerard has learned to treasure every one of Frank’s smiles. He used to take them for granted, but it’s harder to pull a smile to Frank’s lips nowadays so whenever he sees it, it brightens his day. 

Gerard doesn’t say ‘I love you, Frank.’ Instead he goes with the ever eloquent “yeah.” Frank walks through the door and lets it close behind him and Gerard wishes to god he were going with him. He misses him already and he’s barely been gone a second. 

Gerard stands outside looking at the spot where Frank was for quite some time. He just looks and wishes Frank were still there. He just wants to look at him. To take him in. He wishes Frank was always where Gerard can see him. He wants to protect him, to shower him with adoration, and to make him know that he’s the best goddamn human the world has ever seen. Gerard wants Frank to see himself the way Gerard sees him. 

“Fuck,” Gerard whispers to himself. Because honestly, fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are greatly appreciated! Thanks for reading!


	34. Red and Yellow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The whole time.

Frank has separation anxiety. He feels his heart ache being away from hockey for too long. He once broke his wrist and it was the worst six weeks of his life. It’s only been two weeks since he last played hockey, but it feels like two years. He doesn’t have daily practice so now he has too many hours in the day. But Morgan will be there. Frank can’t go to practice if Morgan is there. But Gerard is also there. And Pete, and Ray. Mikey, Travie, Brendon. And they’re all counting on Frank. But where is Frank? Just wallowing away in his room watching YouTube videos, which do not fill the void in his heart thank you very much. 

Hockey makes him whole. It makes his life rounder. It makes sense. And being without it, even though he has every right to leave indefinitely because of what he’s gone through, it’s hard. It’s almost harder than it would be to see Morgan every day.

It never occurred to Frank just how difficult this was. He’s a boy, and never thought it would happen to him. But they say that most people know their attacker. So, if you know your attacker, how is it possible that they wake up every morning and see them? There’s so many people out there who look their attacker in their eyes daily. But no one ever thinks about that. 

Inevitably, Frank is going to go back to hockey. At this point, it’s a certainty. He knows he’ll go back, and he thinks it’s going to be sooner rather than later. Maybe even tomorrow, which is when they have their next practice. But there’s a game tonight, and Frank feels like he has to go. It’s not even a debate on whether he will or won’t, he just knows he’s going to. It’s an absolute, like a doctor’s appointment. 

He’s terrified of what that will mean for him. The one time he went back into the rink was with Gerard, and it didn’t seem so scary with Gerard there with him. It felt normal, being at the rink in the middle of the night, and with Gerard of all people. It’s familiar. He’s also very familiar with being in the rink with a couple hundred people watching him, but for some reason, he fears that now. Maybe it’s because Morgan will be among them. 

Time seems to go by too quickly. Because time always moves quickly when you dread something. Just like it drags on when you can’t wait for something. Frank dawns a school baseball cap, because these things grow on trees. He doesn’t even recall buying it, one day it just appeared. Everyone has at least seven, one for each day of the week. Apart from Ray, whose hair doesn’t fit. 

Frank thinks the hat will disguise him, and maybe it makes his face a little harder to make out, but a disguise it is not. 

Nevertheless, Frank manages to go unnoticed when he sneaks into the hockey rink twenty minutes before the game. This is because a few dozen other people are standing around in the lobby, waiting for the game to start. There almost all college students, most of whom Frank doesn’t know, but he thinks he recognizes some of their faces. The Green Knights rarely ever pull a big crowd, so Frank has managed to memorize a few of the faces of their regulars. They must be die hard hockey fans to waste their Friday nights at this place. If Frank weren’t on this team, he’d be one of the people watching them every week. 

He sees the door to the locker room and his heart practically sinks. He knows who’s in there. He knows what happened in there. His stomach turns over, and the bowl of pasta he had for dinner squirms inside of him. 

But then he sees Gerard walk out of his shared office, and Frank’s heart lightens considerably. He walks the short distance between the office to the heavy locker room door, not looking around in the lobby, so he doesn’t see Frank standing there. Frank puts his head down anyway. 

He’s not sure why he’s hiding from Gerard. He’s hiding from everyone else because he doesn’t want them to know he’s watching the game instead of playing it. He doesn’t want them to know that he’s physically alright, because if he had a broken toe or something they’d probably understand why he’s missed so much practice, but the fact that what ails him is invisible is what makes him hide his face. 

But Gerard, Gerard knows. He knows what happened, and he would probably be happy to see Frank here, though he’d likely be the only one. Frank thinks it might have something to do with the fact that it is Gerard. Pete would be happy to see him he supposes, but Frank wouldn’t try to hide from _him_. Because Pete’s not Gerard. 

Frank relaxes his posture, puts his head down, and tries to look casual as he walks through a couple huddles of people in conversation, and down towards the seats. He walks around the rink for a little while until he finds a position that’s nowhere near the box, so none of his teammates are likely to see him watching. He doesn’t choose a spot in the back though, because there’s not enough people to be justify sitting in the back. Everyone else crams themselves into the front few rows, so Frank takes a spot in the third row. Just an ordinary guy, out on a Saturday night seeing a really shitty hockey team. Nothing abnormal about him.

Frank doesn’t actually know what team they’re playing. He’s sure they’re a better team. Whether they’re a good team or not, they’re certain to be better. Because the Green Knights fucking suck, and not to toot his own horn or anything, but he makes them not suck as much. It kills him to even think it, but Morgan is probably the best player on the team without him, so it’s all pretty much riding on him. 

Why is life like that? It’s always like that. The one good thing in Frank’s life: hockey. Ruined for him. By who? The only guy on the team who could parallel his own skill. Fate is cruel, and it’s shitty, and if there is some God up there who weaves these plans all high and mighty, Frank is going to kick his fucking ass. He didn’t need to do this to Frank. Frank is a good person. Sure he’s gay, but he’s never murdered anybody. Frank’s not sure where he stands on this line, but he does know one thing; if there is a God, he abandoned Frank.

Frank looks down at his phone. He still has a while until the game starts, and he’s starting to feel uncomfortable being here. He shouldn’t be in the seats. This is weird. He doesn’t belong here. He belongs on the ice. On his ice. That’s where his heart is anyway.

“You look weird,” A familiar voice says, and Frank looks up suddenly to see Patrick. “You don’t belong out here.”

“I-I know that.”

“But you’re out here,” Patrick says, and he takes a seat next to Frank, pulling his backpack onto his lap.

“I am.”

Frank hasn’t seen Patrick in two weeks and he forgot how much he likes to see him. Patrick has an angelic, and boyish face. He’s the only person Frank knows who doesn’t have acne and looks as though he never has. He’s so damn short, shorter than Frank, which is an achievement. And he’s got a personality like a bedtime story. Calming, soothing, sweet. Patrick is the boy you’d want to take home to your mother. Pete’s a really lucky person. It’s not that Frank is attracted to Patrick, but he can see how a life with Patrick would be something someone would want. 

Comparing Patrick to Gerard is like comparing here to there. They’re totally opposite. Patrick is calm, soft spoken, wise, a genius. Gerard is erratic, vibrant and wild, smart but not in your face about it. Patrick is green and blue. Gerard is red and yellow. 

Patrick doesn’t say much of anything to him, which is comforting to Frank. Patrick is the last person in the world to try to pry information from you. Patrick knows what boundaries are. In a way, he and Pete fit each other because of the fact that they’re so different. Patrick keeps Pete sane. Patrick’s life is full of excitement when Pete is around. 

“You know that the Jersey Devil’s suck?” Patrick asks, which seems like a weird way to start a conversation, but Frank is okay with weird. 

“I do know that,” Frank replies. If Patrick is about to tell him that the Blackhawks are better he’s going to bop him on the head. With a cleaver. 

“They won’t suck so much when you join the team.”

“When I what?”

“Don’t pretend like you don’t know that’s going to happen.”

“But-”

“Okay, I concede. It might not be the devils. Possibly the Capitals.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Frank says. “I could never play with Ovechkin, I’d probably just end up groveling at his feet.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot,” Patrick nods, “he’s your favorite, isn’t he?”

“I guess so,” Frank nods. 

“You’re one of my favorites, you know,” Patrick says, and Frank rolls his eyes while scoffing. “No, I’m serious. Like, you’re amazing to watch. You are completely your own. Like, everyone else looks like a noodle when you’re out there, Frank, and yes, I fully understand my boyfriend is out there at the same time as you, but you’re still the best. When I was a kid, I found my dads hockey card collection, which is a weird collection I know. Most people collect baseball cards, but he collected hockey cards. Really old ones, probably worth money now, Stan Mikita, Brad Park, like just your run of the mill collection, but when you’re a kid, that is the coolest thing in the world for your dad to have. A big ass booklet, like one of those old Pokémon card holders, but with hockey cards. And someday, some kid is going to pick up his dad’s hockey card collection and he’s going to find Frank Iero.”

“I’m not quitting hockey, Patrick,” Frank says, because he thinks it needs to be said. “I just… I needed a little space. Life has gotten in the way.”

“Life does that,” he nods, “It’s always getting in the way. But that’s what life is. And it will always continue on, Frank.”

“And on, and on.”

Frank is surprised when he sees movement in the corner of his eyes and sees two teams piling out of the locker rooms on either side of the rink. He sees his team. His jersey, his friends, hopping over the box and out onto the ice to cordially meet the opposing team at the center of the ice. Frank respects this tradition. Even if he wants to win so much his heart could beat out of his chest, he also respects that everyone else wants that too, even the people on the other team. Now, Frank is aware that he is better than most everyone else, but that doesn’t mean that he wants to rub that in their faces. 

Frank doesn’t mean to, but his eyes can’t help but to search for the one name his brain is most set on. Wentz – McCoy – Way – _there_. Fahey. 

Frank’s stomach turns, in a way that makes him clutch at it, as if this will stop him from puking. But he doesn’t puke, he gags a little bit, and Patrick looks at him funny, but he holds himself together, kind of. 

“Is it hard?” Patrick asks, not really registering the entirety of Frank’s response to seeing the team piling out. “Being back, after so long?”

“Yeah… yeah, it is,” Frank says, his eyes trained on Fahey, and only on him. His jersey seems to be a brighter green than anyone else’s. Frank can’t make out the face, and he’s thankful of that. He doesn’t want to see Morgan’s face. Even his jersey is too much for Frank.

How is he going to play on the same team with him? Frank knows it’s inevitable, that he will at some point have to go back out there. And be on the same ice as Morgan. Be in the same locker room as Morgan. He’s always going to see those ghosts though. Even next year, when Morgan graduates and hopefully dies in a horrible accident, those memories will still be there. 

The game starts. It’s like the world doesn’t care that Frank is hurting. The game starts without him. How can it even be a game if he’s not there? Frank sees Travie, left wing. Travie races up and down the ice, chasing the puck, but he can’t get it. The other two guys aren’t much of a help. Brendon is a good defenseman, that’s not up for debate. But he’s not Superman. He’s trying to be in four places all at once, but the other team is skating circles around them. 

Frank’s only thought is what he would be doing differently. No, Travie, don’t fall for that. The forward on the other team feigns in one direction and sweeps off in another. Travie falls for it. Frank watches as he goes chasing after him. Ray, the amazing Goaltender the he is, manages to fend off the attack from the puck, but it won’t be long before he has to stop another. And another. And more after that. Ray isn’t Superman either.

Frank can envision the puck going into the other team’s net. He’d pass it to Pete now, and they’d hurtle down the rink. Pete shoots it around the corner to Frank’s awaiting stick. Frank sends it Morgan’s way. _Morgan’s_ way. But Morgan sinks it into the net. It would be perfect. If Frank were on the ice right now, it would work. They’d have the goal. Or at least, they’d definitely take a shot, since Frank doesn’t know how good the opposing team’s goalie is. 

A minute later, there’s a line change. Mikey. Mikey along with one of Morgan’s goons. Garret, who’s the size of a mountain with brains that don’t even compare to an actual mountain. He’d follow Genghis Khan into war if you bribed him with a corndog. Frank often wonders how a mass that large manages to stay balanced on his skates. His momentum is against him whenever he’s on the ice. He might be a good player, if you squint hard enough, but he doesn’t have control of his skates very well. Most of the guys are good skaters who lack in a strategic mind. Garret has a strategic mind but he’s shit on skates. 

Frank almost puts his hands over his eyes, because watching this game playout is too hard. He should be out there. He should be pummeling that team into the ground, and he would, because they’re not that good. Frank would make everyone in this audience understand why they came here tonight. Because they’d win. Fuck, they would win hard. Frank would serve them on a tray. 

Frank sees the moment where things might turn around for them. Line change. Pete kicks himself over the side of the wall, and behind comes Morgan, and the guy Frank supposes is filling in for him, Trystan. This is the best line, and everyone on the team knows that. Pete, and Morgan, two of the strongest players. And Frank, if he were there, the strongest player of them all. 

Frank watches the game play out, and it feels like it’s slow motion. 

Pete intercepts the puck almost immediately. He passes it to Morgan, Morgan to Trystan, back to Morgan. They’re so close to the goal. The other team’s defensemen sneaks it away from Morgan. The puck is gone in a flash, but Morgan checks the guy. A whistle. Morgan shouldn’t have done that. Penalty. 

Frank sits back and shakes his head.

“It’ll be hard to write an optimistic article about this one. How is ‘Participation trophies are cheap at the dollar store’ for a headline?”

“I should be out there,” Frank says, and Patrick nods, because Frank is stating the obvious. “We should’ve gotten a goal already. This team is pathetic.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

Wheels start spinning in Frank’s head. His gear is all in his locker. He could just go down there. Just throw on all of his stuff, and book it onto the ice. 

Coach would never let him though. And Gerard might not either. Gerard worries too much, but he also knows what’s best for the team, so he might not let Frank play, both for his own sake and for the teams. 

Frank hasn’t practiced with the team in weeks. He hasn’t even really played at all in just as long. No one in their right mind would let someone out of practice and out of sync onto the ice during a game. That would be suicide. 

But Frank knows he could do better. He can see it all, like math in his brain. He sees the angles, the shots, the moves, the blocks. He sees it all. He should be out there with his team, but he’s here, in the bleachers. This is stupid. 

Frank doesn’t say a word, he just darts out of his seat, past Patrick. Quick feet make pattering sounds on the metal before his feet hit solid concrete and he ascends the steps, in a bit of a speed walk. What made him think they could do this without him? 

Frank is alone in the lobby of the rink, because everyone else is watching, or playing. He sees the grey elementary school carpet under foot and walks towards the locker room door, like a man on a mission. 

He doesn’t even think, he just throws the door open, and then he stops. The cold grey floor. The white tiled walls. The stink of it.

This is where it happened. In this room. Frank can’t even see through to the locker room, because it bends before opening into the main part of the room, but he might as well be lying on the ground where he was that night. He might as well be under that shower head clawing away at his own skin. He might as well be mopping his own blood off the floor with his dirty clothes. 

It happened in here. With Frank. With Morgan. With silence. 

Frank stands in the doorway, but lets the door go, stepping back a few inches. He can’t go in there. He can’t go in alone. He might not be able to step foot in there at all. 

Frank backs up slowly and looks around. How could he be so stupid? He’s not ready for this. Not now at least. Morgan is out there. Frank needs to prepare himself to face that man, and now is not the time for that. 

He doesn’t want to go back to his seat. He doesn’t even want to see the game. He knows how it will go. He knows what will happen. They’re going to lose just like they always do. Frank doesn’t want to be here for that. If he’s going to lose, he wants it to be on his own terms. But he can’t go out there himself. He just can’t.

Frank walks away from the door. Away from the opening that leads into the audience. He walks towards the front door. 

He doesn’t run. Running is not what he does. He just sort of stumbles, ambles along down the sidewalk, through light snow. He has no direction. He just knows _away_. His feet are wet underneath him, and he looks down to see little mounds of snow layering the sidewalk. When had it started snowing? Had it been snowing earlier? He can’t recall, but it does look fresh. Frank doesn’t want to be caught in the snow. He doesn’t really want to be outside of it either. He doesn’t know where to go. 

Frank looks around the city streets, which are far from deserted. It’s a Friday night in a college town, they couldn’t be more alive. Frank sees laughing faces, mostly of college students, but the odd couple in their forties, and an elderly man walking one way. They’re smiling. All of them. Having a good time. Friday night. Life is good, spirits are high. Freedom feels like it’s on your fingertips. But Frank is lost, _aimless_ , and desperate for escape. 

Frank knows there’s a bar across the street from where he is, and that’s where a good amount of sound is coming from. He becomes almost envious of the people in there, drinking away their thoughts and feelings for the night. If only he could forget that easily. Frank doubts liquor would take the pain away. 

It’s a sudden panic that chills him more than the snow ever could. 

He’s all alone. There are people all around him. And he doesn’t have anywhere to go, except for his room, but for some reason that prospect scares him. All alone in an almost entirely empty dorm, with god knows what kind of people out on the town. Today is when bad things happen. Friday night, people are drunk, people walk the streets alone. People hide away searching for… for victims. Frank is just a statistic. It’ll happen again. Tonight. To someone. Somewhere.

Frank can’t stand it. He’s terrified. He doesn’t know where to go. 

He makes towards Lancaster hall anyway, because at least there he can lock the door and push his desk against it. Frank runs. He shouldn’t, because snow is lacing the ground, but he runs anyway. A few people stare at him, running so fast like he’s running _from_ something. He doesn’t know if he’s running away from anything. He just knows he can’t be out here. He’s going to start crying soon he can feel it. Then it’ll only get worse.

Frank sees his dorm, covering the distance in a few strides. He rummages in his pocket for his key card. Where is his key card? Goddammit! Frank’s shaking fingers fumble through one pocket, then another. Where’s his key card? The panic is setting in. He can feel himself about to collapse. Not in his jacket pocket. Not in his pants pocket. Where did the fucking thing go? His key card and dorm key are both on that lanyard, but for Christ’s sake he can’t find it. 

Frank starts to whimper, slams his head against the wall a few times. He’s locked out. He can’t even go inside. He’s all alone, vulnerable.

He turns around swiftly, staring out into the night, trying to see if there’s anyone there. It feels like there are eyes on him. Like there’s murderous eyes watching his every move. 

He can’t breathe. Frank makes a choked sound in his throat, as he pats at his pockets again. Where is it? It was right here. He must have had it before, he must have. He went to dinner, he swiped it there. He hasn’t been back to his room since. Where is it?

As much as it should be a relief when Frank feels the keycard in the front pocket of his sweatshirt, it doesn’t. It’s not a relief. He swipes himself in, and there is a bit of relief from the cold, but he’s still alone. And now that he’s inside, he sees the walls, and it’s like they’re closing in around him. Like the trash compactor in Star Wars, ready to crush him. Everything’s not out to get him, but it is. 

Frank doesn’t run down the hall, because the RA’s are kind of shitty in this building, but he walks swiftly and with intent. He finds his door, and scrabbles at his keys again, which are still in his hand but now he can’t find the right one. His house key, the key to the safe his mom keeps his birth certificate in, a key that he doesn’t even know what it unlocks, an ornate key he once found on the floor of his high school that clearly doesn’t go anywhere he just thought it looked cool. He finally finds the boring gold key and tries to get it in the lock. First, he tries to put it upside down, then once he corrects himself, he turns it the wrong way. It takes way longer than it should for him to get the key to unlock the door, but it finally gives in and he throws himself inside, locking the door behind him and then falling down against it. 

The tears are already there. They erupt from him without warning, and the air is sucked out of the room. He doesn’t even remember how to breathe. His throat makes strangled sounds mixed with sobs, as he buries his face into his hands.

The worst part is that Frank doesn’t know what went wrong. He had been fine. Everything was fine. He was sitting next to Patrick, and sure he was depressed but he felt okay in comparison to how he usually feels. 

But now this. Sitting here, on the floor. It feels all too familiar. He thought he was getting better. He hasn’t cried himself to sleep in at least three or four days. Sure, he’s in pain, but it’s been more or less manageable. But now it feels like he’s suffocating. 

He can see it happening. All over again in his mind. He sees the locker room floor. He feels his head hitting the ground. He feels the cold floor.

He remembers it all. Like an engraving in his brain, ridged into his present and not just his past. 

Why did this happen? Why to him? Why to anyone? 

Frank cries and he cries and he cries. And he doesn’t have tears left to shed, his body too devoid of water to produce more tears, but he whimpers to himself. Waterless tears ripping through his body. 

The pain is worse than it had ever been. So much worse. That pain had been _easy_ compared to this. He wants to cry until he is nothing. He wants his pain to dig a tunnel. He wants his screams to make the clouds disperse. Frank wants it to _mean_ something. Because it is everything. His pain is important. If his body were the world it would be a hurricane. But the world remains still and moves on despite him. 

It’s not fair. Nothing is ever fair. People always say it and you never realize how true it is until something happens. Life isn’t fair, and we try and we try but still it is always unfair. Good things happen to bad people. And bad things happen to good. 

They say breaking your bones makes them grow back stronger. But Frank’s bones are brittle and deteriorating. He doesn’t feel like they’ll ever even heal. 

Frank looks around at his surroundings, only now considering the fact that he hadn’t turned the light on, so the only light coming in comes from an alarm clock on Ray’s desk and the slightest sliver of light from underneath the curtains. Frank prefers it that way. He doesn’t want to see the world. Because then he’ll have to make sense of it. 

There’s no sense to anything anymore. Things were never explainable, but at least Frank understood why he was doing them. Go to college to get a job, get a job to make money, make money to have a house, have a house to raise a family, raise a family to have them surround and love you. Or at least, that was the plan Frank had sort of mapped out. A little bit. His plan was more like go to school to be noticed by recruiters, join the NHL, become a huge celebrity, retire in twenty years, become an NHL coach, have a secret husband in the meantime, adopt four kids, name one of them after Wayne Gretzky.

But now, it feels staged and ridiculous. Why should he do any of that? Why can’t Frank just go find a cave and wallow in it? 

Frank still wants the same things, they just feel devoid of the same colors they used to have. He still wants hockey, but it will forever be changed for him. He still wants Gerard, but he feels like there is a separation, a wall, that will be in place with anyone he ever likes. And his kids, well maybe they won’t be named after Gretzky because Wayne is kind of a dumb name.

The present is what hurts the most. Frank knows that eventually he will live through this, that he will rise above what’s happened, and he’s never going to defeat Goliath, he knows that, but he’ll put a few dinks in the armor and that’s what counts. 

Frank just feels alone. Scared, huddled in the corner of his room, crying tears that won’t come to his eyes, it feels like he’s stranded. Like he’s in a big mansion by himself. The world is too big and he is so small. 

Frank craves company. He craves attention and he craves comfort. Frank wouldn’t play hockey if he didn’t want attention, at least a little bit. He wouldn’t have done that damn interview for Patrick if he didn’t. But now, that’s not the kind of attention he needs. He needs it from any one person who will give it to him. Preferably, Gerard, but for Christ’s sake he just needs someone to hold him.

Frank misses his mom. He misses her like he’s never felt anything before. She is so warm and welcoming. The woman is shorter than him but with a personality ten times bigger than his. She will let him be vulnerable without any judgment. Because she loves him, unconditionally. And if Frank told her he was gay, she might love him more for it. 

God does he miss her. He misses her cooking. He misses how she’d force him away from his room to help him cook it. “No son of mine is going to move out of this house without knowing how to feed an army.” He misses how they’d watch movies together that they’d already seen a dozen times before. But it was never about the movie so much as it was about spending time with each other. Frank’s seen Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets so many times he could quote the script. And he does quote the script. But watching it with his mom was worth it. He misses how they would do things on weekends, even dumb, tiny things. They’d walk around the local mall together and wouldn’t even go into any of the stores. They’d find a coupon for mini-golf and play more competitively than either of them would ever admit to. He misses her so goddamn much.

But she can’t know. And it’s not because Frank doesn’t think she’d understand, because she would. But she’d start a fucking war. She’d burn everyone to the ground, and Frank would be out of this school so fast he wouldn’t be able to pack his things. And she’d mean the best. But she’d ruin everything. And Frank loves that she cares that much about him. That she would without a doubt slit Morgan’s throat if she knew. Frank doesn’t want that kind of attention though. He doesn’t want that reaction. Hell hath no fury like an Italian mother scorned.

Frank just misses the simplicity of High School, with all it’s flaws. Sure, he didn’t have any friends, but he had comfort. He had familiarity. High School wasn’t his _life_. He didn’t go to sleep every night in his High School. He didn’t live with his classmates. He didn’t eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner with his classmates. He didn’t have phone calls with his mom to tell her he missed her. He didn’t have to be an adult. He didn’t need to worry about anything real.

He was in his hometown and he always wanted to leave until he left and he realized how much he loved it. He had real fucking pizza, and he knew where to get Chinese takeout, and he knew what channel Jeopardy was on. He went to bed in the room he grew up in with old toys shoved into his closet that he didn’t want to pull a Toy Story 3 on. Because really, you can pry Beary the aptly named bear from his cold dead fingers. 

Frank misses home like nothing in the world. Because this place will never feel like home. If it might have, that was ripped from him. His own ice rink, taken away from him.

Frank thinks about that locker room door again. And his mind conjures the door with wicked light and steam coming through under the cracks. It’s scary and unforgiving. It’s stupid. It’s a boy’s locker room. It smells like body odor and ass. Occasionally it smells like that god-awful Shampoo-Conditioner two in one shit that all boys seem to use, and axe body spray, or Kenneth Cole for the fancier of the sleezeballs in the world. There shouldn’t be anything scary about a room like that. But Frank’s bones go cold at the thought of it. 

Frank shivers and realizes that his body is cold too. The dorm is warm, the heating cranked up already to embrace the oncoming winter, but Frank feels none of it. He feels like his lips are blue, and toes frozen. He doesn’t want to stand up, but he does. Frank pulls the comforter from his bed, reaching up and tugging it out, which he’ll regret later because he had it perfectly set up so that it didn’t get pulled out from under the mattress in the middle of the night. He drags the comforter to him, messing up the blanket and sheets he had underneath as well. Even more work for later. 

Frank doesn’t care. He burritos himself on the ground again and pulls his head down into the warmth. He stays like that, his own atmosphere, his own world. For a few minutes it’s okay. For a few minutes, the world can’t break through his barrier. But eventually, the air he breathes becomes that warm and unbreathable stale that forces you to pull your head out from the covers to refill your plasticized lungs. 

The world creeps back in, and so do its monsters. Alone. In a dark room. Cold. Broken. Frank is growing too familiar with this. He’s sick of it. 

Frank needs warm colors. He needs red and yellow. He needs warmth. He needs brightness and rooms with big personalities. All of these things end up pointing in one specific direction.

He is realizing more and more as the days go on that he can’t do this alone anymore. Frank has been by himself for pretty much all of his life. His mom has been there, and Hayley has been there, but they don’t have the closeness Frank needs. Frank needs a best friend. A friend who you shed your skin and bones for. Maybe more than a friend. But anyone Frank falls in love with had damn well better be his best friend as well. 

Brendon understands what Frank has gone through. But Brendon doesn’t understand Frank. 

Patrick is the nicest son of a bitch the world has ever churned out. But he’s the wrong shade of comfort. 

Pete is brilliant and veracious, but he’s so relentlessly, disgustingly _Pete_. Being Pete isn’t a bad thing, but it’s not something Frank can cling to without feeling himself slipping. 

Gerard.

Gerard, with his stupid stubbly neck beard. Gerard, with his dumb unwashed hair rampant with split ends screaming for a haircut. Gerard, with his sprinkler of a mouth spewing unrelenting comic book knowledge. Gerard, whose goddamn skinny jeans have holes in the worst goddamn places. Gerard, who actually has a pretty nice ass for a guy, considering Frank’s is as flat as a North Dakota highway. 

Gerard, who makes Frank smile from every corner of his mouth. Gerard, who thinks no one is interested in what he has to say but Frank could soak up his every word. Gerard, who thinks no one knows that he wears jackets to hide his muffin top even though Frank would fucking worship it if he got the chance. Gerard, whose voice sounds like no one else’s in the world, but he still thinks it annoys people when he couldn’t be more wrong. 

Gerard.

Red and yellow. 

Gerard

Apartment full of comics and knick knacks and framed posters. 

_Gerard_. 

Frank realizes that this room is not where he needs to be. He needs to be with Gerard. Frank checks his watch. It’s only 9:00. The game could still go on a little while longer. Who is Frank kidding? The Green Knights suck, if they make it into overtime Frank will eat his own foot. 

He grabs a jacket from the floor. He’s not positive it’s even _his_ jacket. Phone, keys, wallet. Egg. Egg backup. He has everything. Frank steps out of his room, locking the door behind him. There’s a shirtless man walking out of the shower. There are two types of shirtless men. Those you want to see shirtless, and those you don’t. This guy is the former. Frank looks at him a moment, remembers to rub at his eyes to either disguise the redness in them or seek out the eye boogers that nestled themselves in there. He’s sure he looks a mess either way, but this pretty shirtless man doesn’t matter in the slightest. 

Frank finds his way out of the dorm. It seems like somewhat of a maze. Down one hall, cut through another, down a very long hall, down some steps, one hallway, turn, another hallway, choose your door: look at some vending machines or be shoved immediately out onto a corner of the world that somehow gets more snow than any other place immediately surrounding it. Frank walks past the vending machines, but it doesn’t save him from stepping out into a sheen of snow. He should have worn boots. Too late now, he’s on a mission.

He feels like shit. Frank relearns this every step he takes. Foot up: _I feel pretty shitty but it could be worse_. Foot suspended: _at least I’m going somewhere rather than standing still_. Foot down: _I crave death_.

Frank feels the length of the walk more now than he usually does. Did Gerard’s apartment get further away? Are his lungs burning more than they usually do? Is he dying of the death?

Past a gas station. That’s where he’d go if he needed to buy some weed. Past that side street that he and Gerard had ducked into to hide from Frank’s birthday party. A little bench next to a bus stop with an ad for a realtor on it who’s face probably doesn’t actually have an all-black mustache on it, or huge dark spots where missing teeth once resided. Down a main street Frank sees Ihop, and that local pizza place that everyone swears is the best in the world but is merely a Ritz cracker covered in ketchup and Cheez-Whiz compared to _your_ pizza shop. Three bars which are doing fantastic business tonight, and only one vomit stain on the sidewalk so far. 

Eventually, Frank sees the unintimidating building which has it’s own Wikipedia page because it’s a historical building, but the rent is probably cheap because it still has popcorn ceiling and smells like wet carpet. Frank loves it. Frank enters the punch code because Gerard gave that number to him a long time ago, and then pushes himself inside to take advantage of the buildings’ lack of air conditioner. 

Frank welcomes it. He welcomes the tacky carpet which only covers the ground floor and not the upper floors, which makes no sense because it’s ugly ass carpet which is not how you want to welcome people into any building. Frank makes the three-staircase hike which is made more arduous by the fact that there’s isn’t even an _option_ to take an elevator. 

There. Gerard’s door. His ugly ass green chipped door with the welcome mat in front of it that he didn’t pay more than six dollars for. Frank wishes he were bringing suitcases with him.

Frank rattles on the door rapidly and waits. And he waits. He waits.

Gerard isn’t there. 

The game might not be over yet. Maybe they won, and he’s celebrating. Maybe they lost and he’s drowning his sorrows. Maybe he has somewhere better to be. 

Frank puts his back to the door and sinks. The second door he’s sunk against in the last two hours. He brings his knees to his chest, and he feels his emotions fall. What little adrenaline he gained from the walk dissipates. 

He cries again, softly to himself, and is surprised when tears fall. He thought he’d been too dehydrated to form tears, but there they go. Down his cheek, onto his pants, leaving a wet spot on his lower thigh. 

Frank wants to just go to sleep. He wants to die for a few hours. Wake up again when the sun is out again. When his problems don’t seem as bad as they do now. Frank wants for everything to change. He wants for another world, for an escape. He longs for Hogwarts and Middle Earth. He wants Mars or the moon. Frank wants distance from himself. 

“Frank?”

His head darts up at the sound of his name. The one face that could possibly make Frank feel a little less awful than he does now. 

His face is pale as ever. His hair is messy as hell. His everything is gorgeous as sin. 

“I didn’t know where else to go,” Frank says and it’s enough.

Gerard’s face falls and he throws the bag on his shoulder around to his back, before he pulls Frank up to his feet, which is easier said than done. Frank doesn’t know how he’s so quick to unlock the door, but as soon as he straightens himself, the door is being swung open for him. Gerard throws the light on, which is a relief for Frank in so many ways. 

The door latches shut behind him, and Frank looks around the room which he’s grown to love as much as he loves Gerard. 

Gerard doesn’t say anything, because he doesn’t think he needs to, and Frank realizes that he can communicate perfectly to Gerard everything that could be said. 

Frank turns to stare at Gerard who’s looking back at him, concern the only expression Gerard’s face has ever known. There is a moment where Frank just stares. Where he just looks at Gerard. 

Frank feels his tired, swollen eyes, which must be hideous and bloodshot by now. He feels weariness in his fingertips. He feels like a decayed flower sucking the last drop of it’s short life out of a water filled vase. 

And then Frank falls into him. God, does he fall into him. Frank wishes he could melt. He wishes he could bottle this moment, of Gerard holding him. It’s the safest he’s ever felt. In Gerard’s apartment, late at night, snow falling down outside the windows. The streets are alive and the buildings along with them, but here, it’s soft and calm. 

And it’s just him, and it’s just Gerard. It’s them and no one else. Gerard’s arms around Frank; he’s so warm. It feels like second nature to Gerard, to be holding Frank. And he’s done it only a few times, but it feels so safe. To be vulnerable. He just hopes that Frank feels the same safety in him. 

Gerard keeps Frank sane. He holds the pieces of him together. Frank can’t explain it. He can’t fathom it. Gerard is everything to him. He wants nothing but Gerard, and he’s struggling to determine why.

What is it that made him fall in love? Gerard’s not the prettiest guy in the world. He’s not even the prettiest guy Frank knows. But Frank wants no one else. Not anyone. Not Idris Elba, not Jeff Goldblum circa Jurassic Park who was his sexual awakening. Just Gerard. And only ever Gerard.

Minutes pass. Possibly hours. Frank says nothing. Neither does Gerard. It’s simple. Frank cries into Gerard’s shoulder for a little while, and then steadily stops. But Gerard doesn’t let go when the tears stop coming. Frank feels a calmness in his own despair. It’s still inside of him, but it’s not a stabbing pain. 

Frank breathes the smell of Gerard in. He doesn’t smell that great. He’s been sweating. But he still smells like his same old self. Feminine, and tangy hidden underneath boy smell. Frank isn’t even surprised by the fact that he doesn’t hate it. 

Gerard’s closeness makes Frank feel like the world isn’t ending. It doesn’t stop him from feeling shitty, but Frank sees a future.

Gerard closes his eyes and wishes he could bottle this moment. He feels selfish for wanting it, because Frank is hurting, but Gerard loves that he’s holding Frank. He couldn’t be more honored that Gerard is who Frank came to. Who Frank comes to. Frank trusts him. Gerard is who Frank trusts most in this whole damn city. Because if he didn’t, he wouldn’t be here. 

Gerard thinks it’s discreet but he takes in Frank’s smell the same way Frank had. Frank blanches, did _Gerard Way_ just smell him?

Frank doesn’t think too deeply about it. He shouldn’t. It’ll make him sad. 

Then again, this is the same mushy and feely Gerard who tells Frank he’s sweet, and the best hockey player in the world. Supportive old Gerard who lets Frank cry on his shoulder and supports Frank’s decision to leave Armstrong if it’s what he really wants to so. Understanding Gerard who wants to rip Morgan’s head off but respects Frank asking him not to. 

Gerard who… asked Frank if he had a girlfriend almost right after they met. Gerard who got miffed when Ray thought Frank had a girlfriend. Gerard who definitely did not like Hayley for some unknown reason. Gerard who would only go to Pete’s horror movie thing if Frank went too. 

Frank doesn’t know anymore. Gerard just doesn’t… he doesn’t seem straight to Frank. Or at least, not anymore. He used to. Frank used to be sure of it. But that’s because he doesn’t really know any other gays. He’s really only ever had himself. He never would have guessed when it came to Pete, maybe he doesn’t have that sixth sense. He’s just no good. But Gerard doesn’t really have that vibe to him, and Frank suspects he never has. That maybe Gerard has always been that way but Frank was too blind to see it. 

And Frank slept in Gerard’s bed. Gerard let him sleep in his _bed_. To be fair, Gerard slept on the couch, but he let Frank sleep in his own fucking bed so that he’d be more comfortable. Do straight guys do that? Even the nicest ones in the world, do they do that?

Frank looks up at him, pulling his face away from Gerard’s. Would a straight guy hold Frank like this? Would he let Frank just cry into his shoulder? For like twenty minutes? Frank knows mostly straight guys and he doubts any of them would. 

Gerard’s eyes are looking back at Frank’s. Two different shades of brown. Chestnut meets hazel. His face is so soft. He has the softest, palest skin. Frank can’t imagine anything more perfect. Like porcelain. Only with some acne scars, which Frank thinks are cute. Gerard is everything. He’s warm, he’s funny, he’s passionate, and safe. He’s protective, strong-willed, intelligent, chivalrous. 

Frank’s eyes linger over his lips for a moment. They’re perfect. Frank’s never kissed anyone before. But if he could kiss anyone, it would be Gerard. He’d kiss Gerard in a heartbeat. His is the only mouth he longs for. His is the only hair he wants to run his hands through. His are the only hands he wants to hold.

There’s a split second where Gerard’s eyes move lower, and Frank feels knowledge come over him without any real shock, or bang. It’s nothing more than knowing, and he’s stupid, because he should’ve known along. He might actually have known all along. Gerard’s eyes dart down to his lips than back up to Frank’s eyes, and that’s when he knows. When he _knows_. 

He doesn’t overthink it. He doesn’t think he needs to. Frank leans forward, and he has to get on his tip toes a little too, but he doesn’t care. There’s a moment where both of them realize what’s about to happen, and then it’s happening. Frank puts his lips to Gerard’s. His eyes close, and he loses himself. It’s nothing like he had ever expected. It’s like _electricity_.

Frank’s heart is racing through him, beating faster than he can remember it beating. This is it. This is literally the moment he’s been waiting for. For all of this time. He’s finally kissing Gerard. And Gerard is _kissing him back_.

It’s not one of those peck on the lips Disney Channel kisses, but it’s not much higher a caliber than that either. Frank doesn’t know what he’s doing. Lips against Gerard’s. Hand on the small of Gerard’s neck. Can’t really breathe. Breathe out your nose a little bit. No, that’s weird, don’t do that. 

Frank’s heart has never, in it’s nineteen years of use, beat this fast. Instead of individual heartbeats, it would just sound like one long pronounced beat of its own. 

Gerard opens his mouth a little, and Frank guesses he should too, and then he understands. Yeah, that feels better. This seems like a real kiss. Like the ones in those romantic movies where the two people finally realize they like each other and kiss for the first time, and Frank feels like his life has turned into one of those movies only way more depressing and no one would pay to see it. 

Frank could cry. And he has cried a lot in the past few weeks. But this would be a different type of crying altogether. This is the crying you do at the end of Lilo & Stitch when Stitch says that Lilo and Nani are his family. 

Gerard resists a whimper, and it’s not a sexual one in the slightest. It’s that feeling you get at two in the morning when you realize you miss something that you don’t have anymore. Only the thing that he misses is Frank, and Frank is _right here_. But it feels like Frank is so far away. He’s wanted this for so long and he can’t fathom that’s it’s actually happening. 

Breathlessly, and barely as a separate entity to the kiss, Gerard asks, “How long, Frank?” It’s not a complete question but he hopes that Frank gets the message.

“Since I met you,” Frank says, and it’s close enough to the truth, that Frank doesn’t think it’s a lie. It did take him a few days to warm up to Gerard, who smelled bad and was greasy, and he still often smells bad and is greasy, but he’s not greasy as often so that has probably helped. Though, to be fair, Frank would love this boy if he lived in a landfill.

“Fucking hell,” Gerard says, and he dives right into Frank, because he has been waiting for this moment for what feels like years and he does not want it to stop. He might die of asphyxiation but god would it be worth it. 

Frank has never kissed anyone before. Ever. Gerard would be his first. But he thinks he’s got the hang of it, because it’s not entirely difficult. Just stick his tongue up in there and hope for the best, and if he’s not doing it right, well than neither is Gerard. 

As much as Gerard loves the moment, because he does, a creeping fear runs through him when he realizes that he shouldn’t be doing this. Frank had the unspeakable happen to him only two weeks ago and now Gerard is kissing him. It’s wrong. He’s taking advantage of Frank, there’s no way not to see that. Frank is sensitive right now.

“Frank, I shouldn’t-” Gerard says, very suddenly, as he pulls away from Frank, who at first doesn’t realize he’s trying to stop it and tries to chase his lips.

“What?” Frank asks, looking confused and more than a little dejected.

“I feel like it’s just too soon, Frank.”

“But-” Frank starts, tentatively and then he realizes he probably shouldn’t, because he has never wanted anything more than he’s wanted Gerard apart from joining the NHL, so goddammit, he is not going to let this boy get away that easily. “Fuck, Gerard, I’ve been waiting to kiss you for months, please don’t tell me any excuses why we can’t continue to do that, because like, all I want right now is you. Like, period.”

“I feel like I’m taking advantage of you,” Gerard says, and Frank sighs, because of fucking course Gerard’s going to be a good person about it. He’s caring empathetic, sweet, kindhearted, and more than just a decent human being and here Frank is wanting nothing more than to jump his bones. Stupid Gerard, being so perfect and beautiful. What a dick.

“Gerard, _I_ kissed _you_.”

“I know that! Frank, I know, I’m just, I don’t want you to regret kissing me, and I don’t want you to do it just because you’re hurt inside, like I-”

“This isn’t new, Gerard,” Frank says, “my wanting to kiss you is far from new. The opposite. For fucks sake, I go to bed at night and dream about you holding me. I am miserable right now, Gerard, don’t get me wrong. Every second is suffering, and I feel like my feet are stuck in mud all the time, because like, just existing is hard. But a minute ago? When I was kissing you? That was the greatest I’ve felt in fucking years.”

Gerard doesn’t know what to say to that. He doesn’t know how to react in the slightest. Because this feels like it’s all happening too fast. Like he’s collided with a train. 

Five minutes ago, Gerard was pining after Frank, sure that he was straight. Well, maybe not _sure_ , but sure that he had no interest in Gerard at least. Because even if Frank is gay, or bi, or whatever, there’s no reason for why it should be _him_ that Frank is attracted to. Like, of all the people. Frank’s seen Travie, right? Like he has eyes, which have seen Travie? And he’s aware of Pete too. And Patrick. Hell, Gerard doesn’t see it, but even Mikey is probably cute. But Gerard? Gerard is chubby, and greasy, and talks too much about comics, and he’s annoying, and people tend to get bored of his company pretty quickly. 

The whole idea that all this time, Frank could have liked him back? That this entire time, Gerard’s been pining over a boy he was sure would never look twice at him, and now he finds out Frank felt the same way? They could’ve been together all this time and they wasted so many months just holding it in. But now Frank is in a precarious state, and Gerard doesn’t want to hurt him in anyway, because fuck if he doesn’t love this boy. 

“I just, I feel like now isn’t the time. Not until you’re, you’re…” but he doesn’t know. Gerard doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to hurt Frank, because as it is, Frank is probably more likely to make mistakes, or do things that he’ll come to regret, and if Gerard hurts him… he couldn’t live with himself. 

“Gerard,” Frank says, looking annoyed, because he is. He can absolutely guarantee Gerard that he’s never going to regret kissing him, that it’s not just because he’s been hurt recently. And even if things don’t work out between them, Frank wants to kiss him now. He’s not going to regret whatever they have. The bottom line is that he’s not looking for something just because of what happened to him. He’s wanted Gerard since before everything. And that is not going to change. “For fucks sake, Gerard, I’m in love with you.”

Gerard, looking down, is caught off guard by this, as anyone would be when someone who they thought didn’t like them at all only five minutes ago then declares they love them. He blinks at Frank, and he’s so pretty, he’s so nice to look at and did he just say what Gerard thinks he just said? Really? Him? Gerard? Frank loves _him_?

“You love me?”

“How can you not tell?” Frank exasperates. “Every time I see you, I feel like, I feel like this sort of desperation, because I can never be as close to you as I want to be. I can’t even begin to say it, like I miss you when I’m with you. I feel you when you’re nowhere near me. Like I’m fucking crazy for you, and I wouldn’t tell you that if I didn’t mean it. You’re my best friend, Gerard. And I’m in love with you. I never meant to fall in love with you, but your personality is fucking perfect and I hate you for it, but I also love you for it. You drive me wild.”

Gerard feels his eyes watering up, and he hates the melodrama. This isn’t supposed to be like this. He and Frank are supposed to ride off into the sunset, but things have gotten in the way. Things are permanently in the way. But it’s Frank. At the end of the day, it’s Frank. Gerard would do anything for Frank. And Frank loves him. 

He’s shaking his head, and Frank doesn’t know what that means. Is it a good thing? What’s he shaking his head for? He whispers to himself, but Frank catches the words “this whole time.”

Yeah, this whole time. Frank has liked this boy the whole goddamn time, and Gerard seems like he might have also. The whole time. And they spent these months pining away after each other. Not kissing, not holding each other. Frank has spent so many days in this apartment watching TV and movies with Gerard and he could have been cuddling this boy while they did it, but they fucking didn’t. Frank feels like he’s missed out. He’s going to have to make up on lost time. 

Gerard’s voice surprises himself, but he can’t hold it in. He doesn’t have it in him to keep Frank’s confession hanging when it’s so obvious Gerard loves him back. “I love you too, Frank. From day one. Indefinitely. I love you.”

“Then will you kiss me?” Frank says, practically pleads, “because, Gerard, I don’t want to be without you. I have waited for so long to so much as tell you I like you. But if you love me back, I can’t… I just can’t not without losing my sanity. And I’m barely sane as it is.”

Gerard doesn’t respond. He simply bites his lip, takes a step forward, and grabs the side of Frank’s face. And it’s perfect. Like he ever thought it could be anything else. 

Gerard has kissed two people ever, one of which was a mistake, and one which was okay at the time, but was never going to pan out in the long run. But Frank is the first person he’s ever kissed who he can ever imagine being _with_. Like not, high school couple where all you do is hold hands and go to the movies. Not college couples who study together and watch Netflix on their laptops with one ear bud in because their roommate is sleeping. No, Gerard can imagine going into a department store, and picking out cookware with Frank. Like, getting matching cookware. The fancy shit that Rachael Ray sells. And going to Bed, Bath  & Beyond to pick out bedding. And stopping at a flea market on the side of the road to buy a chair. 

That’s what Frank is to him, even if, right now, he’s just the boy who wants to kiss him back. Frank is someone that Gerard spends time with and he feels himself growing younger. Frank’s company breathes life into him. He could just about fly. 

“You’re sure?” Gerard mumbles against Frank’s lips. Because he still feels like maybe he’s doing something wrong. 

“Positive.”

And maybe Gerard shouldn’t be this quick to jump into things. There’s a possibility that this isn’t going to end well. But he does believe Frank likes him back. No matter the events that have brought them both here, Frank does like him. So maybe Gerard _should_ let things cool off for a little while. But Frank loves him. And Gerard loves Frank. And it’s so hard not to kiss him. It is so hard to stay away from him. And now that he knows he can have Frank, he doesn’t want to say no. Because this is Frank. _His_ Frank. Perfect, wonderful, beautiful Frank.

If Frank honestly, truly wants Gerard in the same way Gerard wants him? Gerard will never be able to pull himself away.

And he’ll never have to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're welcome. I also made a [Daylight](https://open.spotify.com/user/222sxmscwegt53me7yrw3jvta/playlist/0OWmTAeawSDRHkNSfcUgJG) playlist! Take a listen if you want and please, in the comments leave me songs that remind you of this fic, so I might make an audience mix.


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